


sweetened breath

by honeefaun



Series: Connections [1]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (stefon voice) this fic has everything, Desert Caravan Adventures (sue me mad max was breathtaking), F/F, Found Family, M/M, Mentions of past underage sex, Mutual Pining, Original Characters - Freeform, Polygon lore, Post-Apocalypse, Problems with organized religion, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Repression, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Stripper!Brian, Trauma, Undercover!Pat, community building, dubcon, general attempts at waxing poetic, references to Greek mythology, song fic sorta, there are mentions of a lot of characters but they'll show up later in the series!, when I say slow burn I mean slooowww burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 10:43:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21318889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeefaun/pseuds/honeefaun
Summary: The world’s left in a wasteland by long-forgotten apocalypse and the rise and fall of the government. Communities still emerge from and persevere in the desertscape- gangs and villages and even remnants of larger cities scatter across the land, loosely connected by spiderwebs of trade routes or blood spilt by conflicts.Polygon, a group formed by mismatched wanderers, do their best to build connections with others and create a haven for their families, both found and forged.Brian and Laura, however, have been oblivious to the going-ons of the desert, secluded in a den of beauty and vice. In the brothel, dependence is nurtured by the illusion of paradise and world-numbing syrup.Simone promised herself someday they’d be able to escape, to join her at Polygon.Apparently, she tells Pat, the best way to go about this is an undercover mission to break them out and steal a fuck-ton of weed in the process.
Relationships: (mentions of) Brian David Gilbert/Jonah Scott, Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill, Simone de Rochefort/Laura Kathryn Gilbert
Series: Connections [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536874
Comments: 132
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y’all!  
This series has been so fun to plan out so far and is essentially an excuse for me to jam a bunch of my interests into one work. I get to obsess over snippets of songs (bangers only!), experiment with worldbuilding, flex my greek knowledge, and have fun with a variety of post-apocalyptic aesthetics.
> 
> That being said, I’m still gaining experience with writing fics so I would love any feedback, let me know if you have any in the comments!
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, go give some love to @JustThePlanets who did an amazing job beta'ing for me!

Brian comes to consciousness slowly, bleary-eyes blinking open every now and then as he dances between falling into nothingness and waking up. Judging by the pale light filtering through a window and the heavy air, he’s in Laura’s room. He lets his eyes drift shut again, trying to piece together the previous night.

He has a brief recollection of being with a client last night, but it’s clouded by the nauseating taste of smoke and syrup cloying his throat. Brian remembers that the weed hadn’t been enough for this session- and then he doesn’t remember much of anything after he slipped a sweet spoonful into his mouth, pressing a promise of relieving apathy to his tongue. 

It isn’t often he is given clients rough enough to require this; Duchess says he’s a top performer and it would be a shame to lose his expressiveness in the sugary haze, to dull all of his responsive little tricks that drove her and the clients crazy. Whoever it was must have been a high bidder this week. 

While clear thought fails him, the muscle memory of feeling limp and vulnerable (as apparently favored by that client) is worn into his body. 

Brian shifts to turn his face away from the increasingly bright daylight. A hazy vision of someone’s strong arms helping wrangle him to Laura’s room resurfaces in his mind.

He slowly starts to stretch and gives up on falling back asleep; Laura must have done so already, what space is left on the settee has grown cold. The stuffy room smells different than the sickly sweet scent in most of the brothel’s quarters. It’s distinguished by overpowering chamomile, the bread that Laura would bake for the other doves, and dust, which layers the piles of fabric and clothing scattered around the room. 

He spots Laura working on the beading of a costume piece in the corner. When she sees he’s awake, she tosses him some of the day’s bread, shaking her head exasperatedly when he tries and fails to catch it in his mouth.

She tries to sound chastising, “tch- you’re gonna get crumbs all over the bed, you fiend”, but it falls flat as she fails to keep the sadness out of her eyes. Laura’s troubled expression is half lit by the stark morning light, half washed over with coffee-dark shadows.

Brian usually tries to avoid being near Laura after full-package client sessions. He doesn’t like to worry her with the aftermath and he can never really hide much from her. _ Guess last night I was desperate for company _, he thought, idly gnawing on the bread. He reaches for a flask of water on the bedside table and gulps it down, listening to the distant giggling and chatter of some doves in the rooms nearby, all starting to get ready for the day’s work. 

Brian goes over to kiss Laura on the crown of her head, inhaling the smell of sweet bread and sleepy tea that clings to her hair. She looks tired.

Brian scrabbles for something to say to fill the quiet in her room, trying to avoid anything that had to do with the state he was in last night. He freezes, remembering Laura had company of younger Doves every now and then, providing them comfort, kinship.

“Was Rowan here last night?” Brian tries to ask casually. 

Laura waves him off, “Don’t worry, she didn’t see you come in. She fell asleep in one of the other’s bunks last night.”

Brian feels a brief flash of relief and nods, kneading at the sore muscles of his lower back. He forgets that Rowan technically hasn’t earned her own quarters yet- she often treated Laura’s room like her own- but Brian never forgets the fact that Laura has long-ago been given an exception in terms of _earning_ this space. 

Laura adds proudly, “She helped make this morning’s batch of bread!” 

Brian brightens at that, “I’ll be sure to tell her it was delicious!” He stuffs the last hunk of bread into his mouth to free up his hands as he paws around for a random underskirt laying on the floor. “I’m glad you have another sous chef.” He wriggles the skirt over his waist, providing a bit more decency- a funny thing to consider in a place like this- in order to make it back to his own quarters. 

“I’m going to go start getting ready, I’ll talk to you later!” 

Laura gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes as she peers at the mottled bruises along his hips, peeking well above the waistband. Brian hadn’t even noticed them, despite how obvious the large marks were against his skin. No wonder she’d looked upset.

“Okay, but you should tell someone last night’s client needs to pay extra,” she gestures to the furiously purple marks. Her tone, struggling to be nonchalant, hid very little of her anger. Laura fiddles with the beadwork in her lap for a moment before stumbling on for a reason to bring it up, “I don’t want the Duchess to be pissed about being shortchanged a fee.” 

Brian flashes a grin and attempts to lighten up a bit, “Of course, can’t be handling the merchandise like that,” he mimics in a silly-salesman voice, wiggling his hips. Laura does crack a small smile at that, which is enough for Brian. He turns to leave with a little wave, wanting to avoid further discussion.

Brian knows that she hates the fact that this is his job, that he has to fuck and act and tolerate for their survival. He knows she feels some sort of responsibility for their situation, being the eldest since they were separated from Patrick, but in truth neither of them could have changed things. They were only kids, and sometimes things like this happened in the wasteland. 

And there is no way in hell he’d let her do what he’s doing- she’s been uncomfortable enough, silently watching him overwork himself as a whore and a performer over the years. It was almost second-nature for him to perform anyways. He loves it all- the stories, the makeup, the costumes, the choreography, the singing, the _ attention _. It feels like he actually matters when he’s onstage. Offstage too- client sessions were just performances with an audience of one. Sometimes a couple more. 

Despite Laura’s protests, Brian knows he won’t stop as long as it keeps them safe and as long as it means he gets to do what he does best: to please and to look pleasing.

Out of view from Laura’s perceptive gaze, Brian sighs and strides down the narrow hall, hips aching, breathing in the air sweetened with perfume and smoky with incense and weed. It’s not the worst thing that’s been done to him anyways- not even by a long shot. It’s nothing a little makeup and acting can’t help. 

_________

Simone’s been on edge for quite a while- ever since Tara announced her pregnancy and momentary stepping-down, to be precise. Pat’s usually pretty in tune with Simone, which is probably why she appointed him as her right-hand man, but Simone is often loud about her emotions and it’s no secret that this next mish is stressing her the fuck out. 

He watches her from where he’s perched atop the bus, alternating between furiously scribbling at her notepad and scanning the documents Karen had nabbed during her last outing to the city. Pat taps rhythmically on the rusted metal of the roof, turning his gaze back to the horizon, the desert plains baking in the morning sun, to scan for any activity. 

Everyone was thrilled that Tara was finally taking a break. After years of being in charge of the home base and leading caravan missions, she deserved to enjoy the fruits of her labor and have a family. The gang took the change in stride, knowing they would be in capable hands- Simone is the only one who is having doubts about her new standing as a leader. Her usual confidence is shaken by this debut mission, the details of which have been unclear to the rest of the caravan for some time.

They are currently camped on the outskirts of one of the larger cities, a long stretch of junked-up land- the carnage of sheet metal and pulverized cars- separating them from anyone that might be milling about the city borders. Still, always good to stay alert. 

He catches Clayton’s eye, who has abandoned whatever he was tinkering with by the dying fire pit, and Pat tilts his head in a way to ask him to come up and keep watch in his place. Clayton gives a small smile in agreement and makes his way over as Pat hops down, knees protesting the impact from the cracked earth. He ambles over to the woolen blanket stretched out under Simone and settles down next to her. 

“Everything almost ready?”

Simone bites her pencil before responding, “Almost… Sorry I haven’t kept y’all super updated on it, I just wanted to be certain before we do anything drastic.” 

“Well hey, that’s why Jeff and I will be going in. I’m sure you’ll feel better about everything once we get more info.” 

She bobs her head up and down determinedly, “I know, I know. I just really want this to go well”. 

Pat nudges her gently with the toe of his boot, “Y’know, it’s okay if your first mission as leader isn’t perfect. Just trust us. We all trust you.” 

She waves her hand dismissively, “I know all that! I just chose this mission specifically because of the people counting on me. Old friends that would do the same for me if they had the chance.” She runs a hand through a fistful of hair before rambling on, seemingly debating with herself more than Pat. “And I know! I know mixing personal shit with missions can be messy and dangerous, but what’s the whole point of all of this if we can’t reconnect with and help people we care about, right?” 

Pat’s familiar with her hangup about this; out of all the murky outlines of this mission he figured it would be high stakes, especially if it involves previous attachments. 

“It’s not the safest idea…” he agrees, ever the realist, but continues, “but none of this was ever safe.” He shrugs, which has always looked fatalistic on his slouched shoulders and dark features, but Pat’s been leaning more towards optimistic nihilism these days. “We do what we do because caring about people and forming community is the only way to live.” 

And it is true, everything Polygon has done in the past years: building the homebase, temporary as it is, doing missions, forming alliances with other gangs and villages, the endless planning to build a more permanent, safer haven. Everything they’ve accomplished started with dangerous endeavors, but it’s been worth it to strengthen community ties in their harsh wasteland of a world.

Simone seems to be reaffirmed by this. She sets down her notes on the blanket and huffs a small noise in agreement. 

He ventures, “I’m curious about what exactly your history is with all of this,” hoping she’ll finally open up about her connections to this mission. 

Simone is quiet enough for a moment that Pat can hear the hiss of Jeff’s spray paint somewhere nearby. She purses her mouth, her usual bright lipstick forgotten in her frantic planning, before she concedes. 

“You know how rough it is for most women roaming by themselves. The world’s gone to hell and the threat of violence is as present as ever for us, on top of all the other survival bullshit.”  
It’s an unfortunate side-effect of the apocalypse.The bad people out in the world have more freedom and opportunity to wreck shit up. In his few years of roaming he saw a lot of all-women communities and vigilante girl gangs patrolling regions. But that’s just one side of it. Another, perhaps more common, response to their shitty reality is women joining brothels in return for shelter and safety. Simone doesn’t talk about it too much, but when Polygon met her for the first time during a mission, it was hard not to know what kind of work she used to do. 

Pat was touring with the caravan, brand new to the gang by just a few weeks- now he and Simone laugh about how it all went down. His first mission with Polygon had been pretty memorable. It was back when Griffin still went on missions- _ just a quick elimination of a bad dude, _ Griffin had reassured Pat. But when they’d burst into the target’s room they were faced with Simone- then a stranger who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was a jarring image, leather-clad from head to toe but the whip in her hand trembling with fear all the same. How could they not bring her back with them?

Simone’s form next to him is tense, revealing how vulnerable she must feel now despite her level voice.

“I joined the brothel to avoid all of that. I’d only been on the road for a year and I was already tired of that life, always alone and always on edge. Looking back, it was one of the best places I could’ve ended up. Not to say it was perfect, same overlording of debt and typical sex work biz, but it’s a pretty nice establishment considering all things. My specific role kept me pretty much out of harm’s way- inflicting harm was more my job- but a few people I met there became my family. And they weren’t as lucky in their roles.”

She ruffles through the papers and clippings in front of her before producing a sun-bleached photo, its dulled sheen suggesting it had been taken on an instant camera. Simone hands it over to Pat to examine.

In the picture is an owl-eyed girl, maybe just shy of twenty with dirty blonde hair. She’s smiling on a velvet settee- half buried by clothing pieces with Simone at her side, younger than she looks now but her head is thrown back and Pat can basically hear the cackle she must be letting out. A smudge of pinked fingers blur the corner of the photo- a hand fumbling over the lens with laughter. Pat holds the photo carefully in his palm, the faded colors hold something precious. 

“That’s Laura.” Simone points at the mousy girl, “She was the Doves’ tailor. I saw her a lot for fittings- tight leather suits took a lot of work-” She grimaces, remembering the pull and chafe of her old costumes, “We became pretty close then. I eventually spent most of my time in her quarters. She’d always laugh at my jokes and gift me scraps of nice fabric and… I wouldn’t call it love!” Simone interrupts herself, tone high and defensive, and then seems to flounder over her words, “but- it’s definitely enough history to make me nervous about the ‘attachments’ in this mission”. 

Pat is surprised by her sudden bashfulness, her outburst barely distracts from where nostalgia softened her voice. 

Looking at the photo, their faces beaming in each other’s company, he can already conjure up an idea of Simone running around with this girl. Hands gently taking measurements, round eyes crinkling at Simone’s honking laughter, the two curled up together, swathed in piles of costumes and fabric. 

Pat’s known Simone long enough to know she doesn’t really fall in love with people. She’d vehemently tries to explain being aromantic on nights where booze makes the horizon separating sky and earth blur together. Pat always patiently lets her ramble out loud as he tries to keep up with her fast-paced words, drunkenly nodding along. Crushes are merely quick bursts of infatuation; a hyperfixation on someone you know you can’t really have, whether it’s because the situation or the person themselves. Simone doesn’t fall for people with the intention to _ be _ in love. She falls simply for the state of free-fall, the thrill of possibility, the act of _ knowing _ another person wholly. 

Whatever she may have felt with Laura may not be the same as how Pat would experience love (or at least how Pat would like to think he’d experience it), but he understands why she’s been worried about relationships complicating things.

Simone doesn’t want her first mish to fail, especially at the risk of seeming selfish for choosing this specific target. On top of that, both the caravan and the people she cares about are counting on her. 

Pat just hums in affirmation, gracious enough to not pry more about the nature of their relationship- although it’s a mercy Simone is usually far less willing to grant Pat. 

Simone clears her throat and hands him a scrap of a worn photo, this one printed on thick paper that had become soft from creasing. “I was also close with her younger brother, Brian,” she explains. The hint of fingertips in the last picture must have been him. 

The tears and folds of the scrap obscure the boy in the photo a bit, but Pat can make out a fresh-faced youth, slightly curled hair framing his bright eyes. Puzzled, he notices the scrap looks like it was purposefully cut out- then he realizes the kid’s shoulders are completely bare, collar-bones barely peeking above the crisp edge of the photo. The only picture Simone managed to get of Brian must have been a pinup meant to sell at the brothel. Pat shudders a bit and hands back the photos, trying not to think of how young the kid looks, doe-eyes fixing the camera with a playful gaze. 

Simone catches his gaze and fixes him with a sympathetic look, “I know. It was awful. He was only sixteen. Laura couldn’t stand him starting so young, but,” and here her voice turns high-and-mighty and full of ridicule, “‘The Duchess’ herself and her husband took a real fancy to him, wanted him working.The lady was a real horndog, especially for Brian.” 

Pat swallows and processes all of this, shoving down the sick rolling in his stomach. He absentmindedly thumbs over his left ring-finger, lost in thought as he looks out at the desert’s expanse. Sixteen... Unfortunately it’s a common age to be exposed to such adult expectations these days. Pat would know.

_________

Brian ducks into his own room, low-ceilinged as the rest of the brothel and crammed to the walls with knickknacks and clutter. He almost trips over a chest of clothing he’d left in the door frame, and braces himself on the dresser surface. 

Some of the Doves who flit through to chat often compare him to a bowerbird, with the way he amasses pretty things to line his nest with. As he gazes over the rosy walls, which brim with collectibles and glow dimly by the light of his dressing mirror’s tiny paper lanterns, he supposes they are pretty spot on. 

He briefly runs his fingers over the paste covered wall next to his bed- a heavily pillowed lounge- feeling every flimsy, butterfly wing-thin cut-out he has collaged on there; clippings of magazines and of misprinted pinup photos the Duchess would leave on his dresser. The scent of her stuffy perfume still clings to the scraps. 

He rummages around to find the outfit Duchess had picked out for today before making a frustrated noise, realizing the outfit was low waisted and would definitely need some work to cover his bruises. 

Slinging the outfit over his shoulder, he greets Zuko, who sleepily pokes his head out from a bread basket before leaping out. The cat daintily steps through the maze of amber and fogged-glass vials cluttering the dressing room table, each holding perfume, makeup and lube. Brian scritches behind his ears before turning to weave among more halls, humming to himself today’s performance song before coming to the Duchess’s salon room. 

The Duchess, draped in only a dressing gown, is lounging in a plush office chair with her feet kicked up onto the desk. The doors behind her are thrown open to her and Duke’s private quarters, where a girl lays naked in the lavishly massive bed, out of breath and combing out the tangles in her wiry hair. 

With Duchess’s own blonde locks corded in thick braids, she looks regal as always, despite her otherwise brazen dishevelment. The brass radio on her desk hums with static while she scribbles down something in her planning schedule. Someone must have squeezed in more tickets for today’s show- unsurprising since it was the grand performance.

“You should try to act a bit more pleasant darling, you looked as if you would bite my fingers off,” Duchess calls out to the girl in a sugar coated yet disinterested voice, engrossed in her work. 

Upon Brian approaching her desk she looks up, expression melting into delighted smile, “You could take a few tips from this one, oh, the noises he makes! Like a little yapping pup, always so eager to please,” she croons as she shifts to lean over the desk and presses rouged lips to his cheek. 

Brian leans into the kiss and just as easily into his most practiced role. He blushes ridiculously and offers her a bashful smile, “You know I just can’t help it with you, Duchess”. 

She hums in response, still leaning over, her neck dripping with dozens of dangling glass vials, each no bigger than his pinky. The gilded tear-catchers clink loudly as they jostle together, among them are Brian’s, hanging by a fine golden chain. 

Every glistening vial around her neck was filled with bonafide virgin tears; Duchess likes to be present when the young ones are broken in, and she certainly likes to collect souvenirs of each dove’s corrupted purity. They were trophies, proof of her conquests- they were reminders that the doves all belonged to her.

A lazy smile still rests on her lips as Duchess pets along his chest and eyes the fabric draped over his shoulder. 

“Is this one of the outfits I told you to wear today?” 

“Yes ma’am, it’s gorgeous. Laura did a lovely job designing it. The only issue is the low rise fit—the client I had last night…”

He tries to look demure- to appeal to her protective side- as he skims his hands down to the bruises heralding his hips. Duchess tuts, eyes squinted in irritation. 

“Stupid clients, never gentle enough with you doves- I even had Jonah warn him you were performing today!” 

She presses a heavy-ringed finger to the shadow of one of the bruises and sighs at the little noise Brian lets out. 

“Don’t you worry, pet. I’ll charge him the extra fee. Go wash up and get started with the makeup to cover them up, you’ll need to let it dry a bit in between layers.” 

Brian smiles charmingly and dips his chin, “Thank you, Duchess.” 

“It’s all practically taken care of, right, James?” One of her attendants lurks in the corner, hungrily eyeing the sex-stunned girl who was still sprawled in the downy sheets. He snaps to attention at his name and nods. 

Duchess follows James’ line of sight and leans back to look at wiry girl behind her- Brian can’t place her name. 

“Haven’t you been here long enough? What are you hanging around for? There’s no way I want seconds until you learn to show some enthusiasm,” she says cooly. “Go on, shoo!” Duchess waves her off. 

The girl, who Brian does recall is more withdrawn than other Doves, strides out of the room, clearly annoyed and buck naked. She brushes past Brian, stalking away indignantly with flushed cheeks. 

Brian falters a bit to let her go by, then ducks his head in goodbye before turning to go, hoping to escape Duchess’ company before--

“Mmph. Look at you though. You’re lucky you have a performance to save your energy for or I’d lock you up in here all morning,” she purrs with a predatory look before turning back to her work.

Brian quickly takes his leave, hoping to catch up and comfort wiry girl or at least give her his skirt. He slows down after no success- in truth he knew very well it wouldn’t be the first or last time a Dove would be ridiculed and forced to do a walk of shame back from Duchess’s room. She’s as fickle and as she is intense in her worship. 

While Brian thanks his lucky stars she favors him too much for that mercurial disdain to present itself, every interaction with her seems both heavily protective and possessive. 

He thumbs off the smear of red left by her lipstick and thinks at least her flavor of possessive is sweeter than her husband’s.

Zuko greets him with a raspy mew when he returns to his room. Brian glances quickly at the mirror to make sure there’s no remnant of her left on his skin. He inspects himself a few moments more and sets about preening for showtime.

_________

Simone finally calls everyone together to go over the current plans and info. The white ashes of last night’s fire float around their legs, clinging to them as the group stands and listens closely to Simone, her voice steadied by renewed confidence.

Karen runs over the details she picked up in her preparation for this mission: strange shipments going out of the building, trucks picking up stuff late at night, no up-front advertising to clients of whatever required such activity.

Simone suspects it could be more human trafficking- she informs them that trafficking was how a lot of the original prostitutes ended up at the brothel. Hostiles, bone-adorned gangs that Polygon’s clashed with before, would wrangle captives from whatever village they had raided and trade them as currency for the back-door business that the Duke had established since day one. 

Apparently, the Duke dabbled in chemistry, looking to further expand the brothel’s offered vices, and eventually concocted a pretty potent variation of grade-A codeine. Simone further explains that the brothel also had grown rows upon rows of weed to supply to clients and doves and additionally to trade for whatever- or whoever- they needed. 

Simone paces a bit, seeming to have laid her foundational info out for the gang. She stops and turns to them, gaze sweeping across their expression.

“This is first and foremost a rescue mission. Laura and Brian are like family and I want them to be free too. However, human trafficking is obviously an operation we need to wreck if that’s what this suspicious activity turns out to be, even though it seems small scale. But furthermore, if we plan this right and work with Brian and Laura, we can make off with units upon units of their marijuana too. It’ll be enough for us to trade, use, sell, whatever.”

Jenna pipes up excitedly, “Syd and Justin could use it to propagate a crop of our own back at camp!”

Simone smiles, “Exactly. If this raid goes well, we’ll have an extremely versatile asset plus two new members of the family.”

The group seems to be pleased at what success would entail, and the prospect of more weed to use on the road was something Pat definitely wouldn’t refuse. 

Clayton’s nodding along with the rest of them before inquiring, “You mentioned potent codeine- wouldn’t it be smart to take that too? Seems like that could sell for a lot.”

She shakes her head, dark hair whipping against her shoulders, “We shouldn’t touch the codeine. It’s highly addictive and we shouldn’t use it, especially without a constant supply. I never had to take any when I was there but I’ve seen others go through withdrawals, cut off from their syrup rations as punishment. It’s not pretty. Besides, the Duke’s blend is distinct and it would be easy for him to track it back to us if we sell it.”

Pat’s a bit thrown at the complexity of this mission- it may take a while for the gang to gather enough info to safely conduct the raid. Simone’s right though, given they’re patient, this could turn out really well for Polygon.

“How do we know Laura and Brian are still there?” Pat asks, looking between Simone and Karen. 

Karen’s usual gig was a discreet casing of mission locations off in other factions- long before the caravan even arrived at their rendezvous point. The stealth role suited her; while she’s warmed up to the Polygon crew since she’s joined, she prefers to work alone and avoids getting attached to anyone she gets information from. Some things are ingrained into you by the wasteland. 

Pat understands, and while he feels similar to her gravitation to independence, he also doesn’t mind that he often gets stuck with the job of face-to-face interaction. Back when he’d go on missions with some of the older crew- with Russ always fumbling into enemy traps and the brothers bickering over directions- Pat usually volunteered to stay behind on missions and defend the vehicles. The frontlines are different for sure, but he’s come to enjoy meeting strange individuals.

Karen speaks up from where she’s crouched, her usual black clothing replaced by a loose brown shirt and harem pants in the desert heat. “Believe me, Brian’s still there. And wherever he is, Laura should be too.” 

She doesn’t elaborate on how she knows that, continuing on, “There’s a big performance tonight, it’s a good way to become a new client, drawn in by the hubbub surrounding the event.”

Simone nods in agreement, “We really only need Pat on the scene for the majority of the mission, acting as a client in order to communicate with Laura and Brian. I can’t show my face there for obvious reasons. The rest of you will be on call for whatever comes up but when it comes time it should be a normal raid, and you’ll all play your part on the actual night of. Jeff, you’ll be going with Pat today to make sure his first appearance goes well.” 

With Simone settled fully into leadership mode and the rest of the gang’s curiosity appeased, the meeting disperses into side conversations or people disappearing to do busy work. 

After most of them have cleared out, Pat remains where he is. He sits against the side of the van, lighting a cigarette and mulling over all the new info.  
Pat weighs his thoughts against each other; one half of him is certain in his abilities on missions, the other half worries about how things could go wrong, how he could possibly disappoint Simone. 

After a bit of warring with himself, Pat settles with the knowledge that if Simone trusts these people, it should be easy. Besides, he could always fight his way out of a tight spot- the quick draw of a gun, the sharp movement of his body was always kept at the ready after years of wandering.

With a yelp and a faceful of alcohol-scented fabric, he is stirred from his thoughts. He tugs the pile clothing off to find Allegra leaning over him, amused, the curls escaping her loose braid dangled in her face. 

“Can’t a man smoke in peace?”

She ignores his complaint, “What a lucky duck. You get to wear this bomb-ass disguise.” 

He picks up a charcoal blazer- only just noticeably patched up from wear and tear, some matching slacks and a black feathered button down. The clothes, stylish as they were, reeked of stale booze. 

He wrinkles his nose, “If you wanna play the smelly pimp character, be my guest,” and he tosses the blazer back for her to get a whiff. 

She just as easily bats the wad of clothing back at him, instinctively lashing out with her strong forearm. 

“Sorry Pat, I can never do justice to that lonely old man vibe you got going on. And you’re not a pimp- that’s the Duchess’s job. You are but a horny patron,” she teases. 

Pat hands over the remainder of the cigarette for her to finish, the bleached paper of it stark against her tanned fingers. 

“Oh yeah, gotta radiate incredible bastard energy for this role. It’s my time to shine,” he deadpans back, inspecting the dark clothing.

Pat stands and ducks into the van, shucking his clothes to don the garb of some dickhead.

“Where’d this shit come from anyways?” he asks, leaning out of the open double-doors. Jenna slides out from under the tail-end of the van, and startles Pat. 

“Jesus Christ!”

“No, I’m Jenna,” she beams, at which Pat groans. 

Jenna sets down some tools and wipes her hands on the front of her ratty jeans, the fabric already streaked black with motor oil, “Karen got it from some hotel she was casing a few weeks back.” 

Pat hums and goes back to adjusting his collar when Jeff joins him in the van, which creaks under their feet. 

Pat’s still a bit nervous, mind running over the mission and what his role will entail. He hopes he doesn’t fuck up- Pat usually knows how to hold his own- but sex was a weird topic for him since he’d left The Church what seems like ages ago. 

First it was all taboo, never to be done. Then he was expected to as a husband; apparently his duty to The Church, to _ God _, was to father more members of the faith. 

Pat couldn’t- not even with her, he’d been married off to the prettiest of the bunch- _ what was wrong with him, didn’t he love her? What was he, a fucking quee- _ Well. To summarize, it all got even more complicated. 

Pat knows he’ll be out of his element in a place like this. 

Jeff notices him zoning out and settles a grounding arm around his shoulder. “Lean into the part. You’ve already got the scruffy, badass rebel look down, just work with what you’ve got. Hopefully this Brian fella will take it easy on you.” Jeff means well- seeming to think that was a comfort to Pat, he turns away to take off his paint-stained cloak. Or was it a smock? Pat supposes anything that Jeff wore eventually turned into a smock. 

Another wave of nerves pulses through Pat- he hadn’t thought about the specifics of how he’d have to play along with whatever Brian’s services were.

Allegra strides over and kindly hands Jeff his outfit before tossing black gloves at Pat’s face. He snatches the wadded leather out of the air before grumbling, “Jeez, do ya have to throw everything at me?” 

Jenna laughs, “Maybe stick to throwing punches instead, Legs”. 

Jeff smiles as he pulls on a pair of pants, either enjoying Pat’s suffering or pleased by his new outfit, or perhaps a mixture of both. 

Allegra, her smirk muddled by the stubby cigarette between her lips, seems to be queueing up a retort before their banter is interrupted by a wolf-whistle from Simone, who is sizing up their disguises.

“Lookin’ good boys, are you almost ready?” 

Jeff must have been smiling at the former option because he moans at the gaudy pleather coat in his hands before reluctantly shrugging the metallic bronze fabric on. 

“I look and feel like what Griff would call ‘a rotisserie shithead’.” 

“Perfect, you’re getting into the character!” chirps Jenna.

_________

The wooden floor thunks hollowly under the feet of performers, all whirring about backstage. Brian is pushed over by someone for the fourth time as he tries unsuccessfully to put on an elaborate anklet, carefully balanced on one foot. Doves bustle around him to get ready, chatting and fighting over makeup and costumes and mirror-space.

“Did you hear? His regular client hasn’t been back in weeks, I bet you my syrup rations that he knocked her up.”

“Ooooh, Duchess is going to be _ pissed. _”

“You have your own mirror in your bunk, get out of the way!”

“Who stole my setting powder? I swear to god Kayla, if it was you again-”

“Artemis, someone took my dress, this one’s way too big!”

Artemis is Laura’s nickname. Names were simultaneously precious and unimportant around here. Most doves don’t know or remember their full names and in the jumble of performances and client scenes, stage names are thrown around carelessly. If it fits the individual well, the monikers often stick in place of their true name, a marker of their personality. 

Fondly exasperated, Laura mumbles something like _ quit whining, hold on _around a mouthful of sewing pins. She is swarmed by crests of white, the doves crowding around her with their costumes while Laura’s hands are already occupied by someone’s torn veil.

It’s almost funny- most of the doves like to picture the goddess Artemis as a badass huntress after watching Brian do silly re-enactments of myths from Duchess’s books. But his own sobriquet is Apollo, dubbed by the Duchess herself for his musical gifts and radiance, and Laura is well known to be nurturing- to take every new, frightened dove under her wing. 

Laura would always ferociously protect the youngest ones from being put on the working roster too early, despite knowing her own precarious role as a non-performer herself. The virgin patron saint, the protector of young maidens.

Brian himself is quite fond of their nicknames- poetically fitting indeed- inseparable siblings, the loyal twins reincarnate.

He perks up when he notices Jonah near the ropes that draw the stage curtain shut, resting idly before he has to inspect and pat down all of the guests that would soon flood in.

Jonah’s worked at the brothel as security for almost as long as Brian’s been here. He’s always been his closest companion, writing songs and making jokes together for years. He was a steady, kind presence for Brian to attach himself to when he felt like he was slipping away, blending into the continual haze of lust and intoxication.

Jonah waves when spots Brian hopping his way over, hands still clutching the gold around his ankle. Jonah’s face took on a sheepish expression. Unfazed, Brian extends his leg, waggling his foot in front of Jonah expectantly. 

The larger man grasps the ankle in front of him to pull it higher for him to inspect, unbothered by the contorting angle since he knows Brian’s flexibility well. 

“Sorry I took you back to Laura’s last night.” Jonah begins, eyes turned downward. He focuses on fastening the anklet, the small clasps clicking together easily in his precise hands.

_ Oh _. That was why he looked guilty, Jonah was the one who helped him back from his client session last night.

Before Brian canrespond, Jonah continues on as he gently eases the other out of the uncomfortable pose, “I know, I know, you keep telling me not to let you around her after sessions like that… but you kept asking over and over-” Jonah finally looks back up and Brian feels pinned under his gaze by the same weight he felt when Laura looked at him this morning. Brian thinks its something like pity- not quite but only just.

“You were just in a really bad way, I didn’t want you to be by yourself. You shouldn’t have to be after things like that-” Anger breaks through Jonah’s voice, “You shouldn’t even have to experience things like that.”

Brian looks down and shakes his ankle a bit, distracting himself with the way the jewelry jingles loudly against itself. He knows Jonah is pretty pragmatic about what Brian’s lifestyle entails, much more so than Laura. As a security worker, he’s seen and handled situations where things went south- and they very often did. Still, he and Jonah have had this conversation countless times, as if re-circling to it would change the reality of the situation.

Brian skirts around Jonah’s last point, diving straight into reassuring him, keeping his voice airy, “It’s fine Jo, really. I don’t even really remember last night.” He’s still fidgeting with the anklet, the glittering noises piercing through the tension, “Just next time, I’d rather you take me back to your bunk than hers.”

Jonah frowns at Brian breezing over the topic but nods regardless. The certainty in the dip of Jonah’s chin makes Brian think that Jonah would do anything he asked of him. His inclination is supported by how the both of them knew sharing quarters wasn’t a good idea. 

The Duchess dislikes security intermingling with the doves, she worries that if relationships formed, doves would waste their energy when their bodies should be rested for clients. No one could tell if she purposefully ignored the irony in this policy, as her libido often puts a couple doves out of commission for the day. 

Part of Brian is thankful for the policy, however loosely enforced it is. He’s sickened at the thought of how there would eventually be an in-brothel pregnancy-- at the thought of a child being born and raised here.

Either way, Brian would rather be at her and the Duke’s mercy than to worry Laura.

Jonah changes the subject, to Brian’s gratitude, as he gestures to the stage, “So I heard you get to whip out the lyre tonight, huh?”

Brian groans at the reminder, filled to the brim with directorial thoughts. “Ugh, as much as I love the lyre, this song sounds way better with you on guitar. It needs that heavy handed line to balance all the fuckin’ choral elements in the song- and the harmonies are so powerful but like, we get it, this performance is hellenic-inspired, you don’t need to summon Nete, Mese and Hypate themselves. Je-_ sus _, it’s just so on the nose! I wish we could’ve at least kept the guitar in, but I can’t dance properly while playing and no one else is nearly as good as you.”

Brian’s tirade pulls a deep-bellied laugh from Jonah, rumbling low and comfortingly. “Sorry Brian, they need me working tonight, all hands on deck for this crowd. You did get someone to do drums though, right?”

“Of course I did, something needs to further ground the ostinato. I just really want the audience to like this one.” 

Brian bumps a shoulder into Jonah playfully as he adjusts his headdress, rearranging his curls around it. 

“How do I look?”

“Properly divine, _ Apollo. _Very hellenic-inspired.” Jonah teases at the irony of Brian’s complaints about the performance’s theme.

Brian scoffs in mock offense, collapsing exaggeratedly against Jonah, whose arms come up to support his dead weight instinctively. 

“Don’t make fun of me, I’m having an artistic _ crisis _!”

Before Jonah could play along, a snub-nosed dove cuts in, voice tinted with annoyance.

“Jesus- Apollo, can’t you save it for the clients?”

Brian readily switches acts- as if fueled by the jeering, he shifts instantaneously. Still held up by Jonah, Brian snaps out of limpness, “Save what, exactly- this?” And with that he pulls Jonah down to kiss him, dipping himself lower in the process and pointing a leg out for good measure.

A few laughs and whistles ring out at the overdramatics. When Jonah breaks away for air, Brian turns and winks at the ruffled dove without missing a beat. 

“Don’t you worry, there’s plenty to go around.”

The dove in question tsks at the display and turns away haughtily to finish his own makeup.

Jonah uprights Brian, part bewildered and part amused. “C- Could you warn me next time you use me for one of your stunts?”

Brian smirks mischievously, “You didn’t seem to want warning last time we-” 

Jonah stops him with a stern look, “Bri.”

He relents, “Sorry, sorry. It’s all in good fun though, right?” 

It’s a bit loaded, not clarifying whether Brian was asking about small scenes like this or their _ thing _ in general.

Brian anxiously searches Jonah’s expression for any discomfort, but it clouds over indecipherably before Jonah sighs and flashes a smile. 

“Of course- of course it is. I just don’t want the higher-ups after my hide.”

A beat of silence settles hesitantly between them, previous tension fizzing slightly at Jonah’s response, stunted by something that leaves Brian unconvinced. 

_ Jonah shouldn’t have to worry because of me _, Brian thinks before starting up with renewed fervor, and of course, downplaying the consequences.

“Hey, don’t worry about that. If they dislike you gettin’ your hands on me, I’d throw in a bit of begging, dress up- the works, you know? I won’t let anything happen to you. Some alone time with either one of them and it would all blow over. Hah! Blow.”

The other winces at the prospect of Brian spending more time with the Duke and Duchess- beyond what is already unideal in Jonah’s opinion. 

Brian barrels on, not giving opportunity for the other to protest.

“You’re my closest friend Jo, you know that. I’d take care of it happily if they ever bring it up, it’s nothing new anyways.”

Jonah’s expression flickers a bit at being called Brian’s closest friend. _ Strange _. Brian thought that fact was nothing new as well. 

Jonah still looks uneasy at all of Brian’s offers. “You really shouldn’t have to- especially with the Duke-”

“Brian! They’re circling up for vocal exercises!” calls Laura.

“Shit! Okay, it’s almost showtime babey!” Brian crows up into the low-hanging rafters, to Jonah’s amusement.

Brian half-skips off towards the other doves, “Good luck wrangling the clients, Jo!”

As he starts to warm up his voice, Brian glimpses the guard waving back before disappearing through the curtains to the main floor.

_________

It’s dusk when Jenna drops Pat and Jeff off a good ways from the brothel’s entrance to stay discreet. She calls out a cheerful “Have fun! Use protection!” before she swerves the truck around to return to where they’ve set up camp. 

The night air settles in as they walk in companionable silence towards the dim glow coming from the building. The brothel is squat but stretches across a large expanse of land. The whole sprawling building is only one story. Just enough room for the amenities Simone described to him- a saloon with a performing stage, private client rooms, a bathhouse, even a courtyard. That doesn’t even account for the Doves’ bunks and dressing rooms, and the winding hallways that connect it all.

Of course they have to heist the ritziest brothel in this faction.

The two of them stand at the entrance and wait for the lumbering security guards to wave them in. Tonight is free entry, so they don’t have to worry about paying for this visit. Jeff speaks quietly in false annoyance, “I can’t wait to see the inside- Simone’s been talking my ear off about this place. For all the shitty years she spent here, at least it exposed her to greco-roman literature. I mean, check out the aesthetics.”

The front of the building bears a neon sign that weakly blinks “Duchess’s Doves” against the sun-bleached walls. The dusty rose concrete of the building is lined by tacky grecian pillars, their plaster crumbling a bit with age and poor construction.

A large man beckons them to step forward, bearded face remaining indifferent as he gives a perfunctory glance and pats them down for weapons. The guard steps aside and gestures for them to come in, his voice not unkind but still gruff when he bids them a good evening.

They pass through a small parlor with a crowd of other guests, brushing against the plastic petals of the fake flowers that deck the walls. An ornately draped woman, tall and decadent, greets a few regulars with a plummy voice. That must be the Duchess. She’s crowded by chortling clients, but Pat makes a note of her darkly lined eyes and wine-red mouth for the future. Eventually Jeff shoulders his way through the cluster of people, Pat staying close behind him, and they reach the saloon. 

The room is expansive, its wide space covered in a myriad of carpets and hanging tapestries. The lighting is dim right now, washing all of the patrons in warm shades as it reflects off of the decor. The tassels hanging from some of the fabrics that criss-cross the low ceiling brush against Pat as they look for a seat among the quickly filling up selection of plush cushions and squat-legged lounges. 

Jeff finds them a spot with two floor-mats and a low table a little ways from the curtained stage that stretches across one end of the entire room. The air is thick and Pat’s head clouds with incense and fragrant oils as he fidgets with his collar, loosening a couple buttons.

A bejewelled man comes by and sets two glasses of water on the table, dark hands lingering flirtatiously on Jeff’s shoulder as he leaves. He turns and winks at Pat, surprising him with the glint of gems adorning the tips of his false lashes. 

Pat tries to get a sense of the room layout and subtly lets his gaze follow the man as he disappears down a darkened chamber. He peers around and notices a few other identical exits lining each side of the room, other finely dressed servers darting in and out of each. Pat catches Jeff’s gaze and looks pointedly at the hallways, making note of them to him. 

When the ambient lights darken, the crowd’s boisterous chatter swells into rowdy woops before fading away to quiet murmurs. 

A lyre begins plucking a repeating melody out in a lower register than Pat would expect, sounds of rhythmic claps surround the notes. A spotlight beams on the stage as the curtains are drawn aside, revealing a large group of performers- doves, Pat supposes. 

The lithe bodies are scantily costumed by a variety of ivory garments, draped like togas- fanciful bursts of tulle and headdresses leap out of the mass of skin and fabric. Pat tries to make sense of the cluster, which remains statue-like beyond the pulsation that accompanies each heavy beat. But as he tries to tell one dove from the other, the lavish plumage and the eroticism of it all blends their identities and genders indecipherably. Pat can’t tear his gaze away from the thrall of the performance, but he can practically feel excitement radiating off of Jeff in appreciation of the visuals.

The doves are all poised in an array around the center where Pat squints to pick out a lone figure, who stands facing away from the crowd. A voice springs up from the performer, strong and clear, “_ I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found… _”

And suddenly the ensemble chants in response to the figure’s prompting line- a powerful, soaring “_ Heyaaaa _”. As they cry out, the cluster comes to life, each dove separating slightly from the other as they glide into different seductive poses and then freeze like marble busts. 

_ “I'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground…” _

The figure hasn’t moved yet, only facing away as he sings sweetly and looks to be picking at the lyre, the answering cry of his peers howling around him.

“_ I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around… _”

Yet another wave of choral voices, bodies gracefully dispersing across the stage. The next refrain is almost whispery with how gentle it sounds.

“_ And I'd be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice- _”

Pat forgets to breath for a moment when the figure finally turns dramatically, dropping to one knee with an arched back. It’s unmistakably Brian, heralded by dove wings sprouting from each temple, who fixes the audience with an intense gaze as he croons,

_ “Imagine being loved by me.” _

The chorus hits and the other performers slowly dance as they back up Brian’s leading voice, but Pat fails to focus on the lyrics now that he can decipher Brian from the rest, especially in the unruly haze of cheers and catcalls from other patrons.

There’s no doubt that he’s the same boy from the photo, if a bit older and more of a fully formed person- although he looks more nymph than human in his costume. 

His torso is fully exposed with white puffs of sleeves starting at each shoulder. Brian’s pants are low slung on his hips, its artful drapes appearing skirt-like. As Brian weaves through the bacchanal arrangement of strippers, his limbs glint with golden circlets, bare feet prancing lightly across stage.

_ “...the last witness before the wave hits, marvelling at God.... Before he feels alone one final time and marries the sea- imagine being loved by me…” _

Pat finally looks over at Jeff, whose eyes glint back in recognition of Brian. Seeing Brian in person makes the reality of this mission fully settle in, the chaotic beauty and intensity of it all. Pat just nods almost imperceptibly at the other, taking a deep breath.

“..._ I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do... _

_ So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you... _”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Don’t worry, the two will meet face-to-face in the next chapter))
> 
> Come say hi on my Tumblr @itsachaliceforyourthoughts or hit up my ko-fi ( ko-fi.com/bovinebby )
> 
> Thank you Hozier for the fic title, which is from Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene and thank YOU for reading, let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait for this chapter, things got a little busy so I didn't have a ton of writing time. It's a little shorter than the first chp just because pacing things worked out that way, buuuut I hope you enjoy nonetheless! Brian's costume is inspired by https://pin.it/3uupsvj45hdhbz Huge thanks to my brilliant beta, @JustThePlanets, check out her fics if you haven't already!

The crowd’s raucous cheers at the fall of the curtain jerks Pat out of his trance, having been both shaken by Brian’s appearance and mesmerized by his performance. It feels imprinted on the back of Pat’s mind- the water-like flow of Brian’s movements, his torso twisting and snapping gently in time to the beat. Pat shakes his head a bit, mentally scolding himself. He hisses inwardly, _ Not the time to have thoughts like this _. 

Right. Now Pat just needs to figure out a way to see Brian in private. 

Jeff speaks, “Well, now that we’ve spotted him, I suppose you should try to get a room with him when you get the chance. But _ wow _, what a performance. I really want to see the detailing on some of those garments- oh look- here they come now!”

The doves, still in costume, begin to flood out of the passages on each side of the room. They swamp the scattered servers that are roaming about with delicately balanced brass bowls of food and pitchers of wine on their heads or on a cocked hip. A few carry trays lined with joints or little jars of dark syrup, each chatting up patrons and offering them whatever goods they held.

Pat scans around the new flurry of white in the room. He has to admit, each one looks like they’d sprung from a fantasy, with shimmering gold beadings and mountains of draped fabrics. It’s hard not to admire the utter frivolity of the doves. He turns back to find Jeff with a lit joint in hand, talking to a dove with bright red rouge smattering each pale cheek. Pat shakes his head with a small laugh when Jeff excitedly gestures to her costume. He turns back to look around for Brian among the other servers. 

However, he doesn’t have to look far at all. Brian’s right next to their table, talking to one of the security guards- the same one that let Pat and Jeff in. Brian’s practically glowing all over, the miles of his exposed skin flushed with pride. Another dove brushes past him and plants a kiss on Brian’s cheek before giggling and disappearing into the crowd. Brian laughs at something the guard mutters to him, tossing his head back with the action. 

Pat is transfixed by the wings perched on Brian’s head- he looks like the stained glass archangels Pat would sketch while daydreaming in church- when Pat realizes Brian has noticed him staring.

The kid slinks over to sit next to him and flashes a small smile at Pat, and _ oh god _ he’s even more beautiful up close. His bright eyes bore into Pat.

“Like what you see?”

Pat is caught off guard by the other’s sudden appearance, pressing so, so close into Pat’s space. He tries not to freeze up at the sudden attention, barely remembering to stutter out an answer.

“Oh- yeah, you’re an incredible performer, the show was great. Quite the set of pipes you got there.”

Brian’s smile widens at that, “Why thank you, I pride myself in this kind of stuff- directed it myself. And it was actually a lyre, we save the satyr instruments for other performances.”  
Pat laughs despite himself, nerves dissipating slightly. Brian’s eyes are striking and comforting at the same time- it’s really unfair. The sounds of strangers’ voices and clinking of wine glasses fade to the back of Pat’s mind. 

For some reason this doesn’t help him think of anything smooth to say at all.

“I like your headdress.” Pat supposes it comes out too open and honest because Brian blinks a little at the innocent comment, probably expecting something closer to his clients’ usual deviant undertones.

“You remind me of an angel.” Pat adds unhelpfully, wincing a bit.

Brian bites back a pleased grin, seemingly amused at Pat’s fumbling compliments. The dove looks down at his lap and _ woof _, Pat did not realize how lowcut the pants were until he was face to face with inches of exposed soft skin, the golden waistband cinching just below muscled dip in Brian’s hips. Brian slips a joint from the folds around his waist, likely thinking Pat needs it. And of course he’s right- Pat would love to settle his nerves a bit. 

“A real flatterer, aren’t ya,” The drachmas on his bracelets jingle slightly as he offers it to Pat. “Would you like a smoke?”

Pat takes it, fingers brushing gently against Brian’s, and tucks it absentmindedly behind his ear. Determined to focus on the task at hand, he tries to lean into his character and let his voice come out more rough.

“Thanks, but I’d really like to see you in private.”

The other laughs, a bright, joyous thing, and puts both hands on his glistening waist. “Oh, someone’s sweet on me- booking me as soon as I get off stage!”

With Pat’s remaining resolve, he simply gives a wicked-looking smirk in response. 

Brian chews on his bottom lip, pink and pursed, pretending to consider the other thoughtfully. “I have one more performance tonight in five, but that can definitely be arranged afterwards.”

Brian leans in further, nimble fingers come up to adjust the joint at Pat’s temple, his hands smoothing down the stray hairs there. 

“I’ve gotta run to my costume change but just talk to Jonah over there, he’ll take care of payment and escort you when I finish up onstage.” He jerks his head towards the bearded guard nearby before standing up. 

“Sounds good to me. Break a leg,” Pat manages.

Brian musses at his caramel hair, fluffing up the mass of curls before shooting a wink at Pat. His voice turns smoky, “See ya soon, handsome.” 

Brian saunters away, dipping his head towards the guard to whisper something before he disappears down a hallway.

A warm blush creeps up Pat’s neck, prickling at his skin. _ God _. He can’t believe he’s doing this, he can’t believe this is real. He’s a tough customer, but just a couple minutes under Brian’s attention threw off Pat’s game. How the hell is he gonna survive this? Years of repression were rough- “sin” felt shameful enough he was sure it would stain his skin- but Pat thinks the full 180 of this mish might kill him. 

He busies himself with the water glass in front of him and takes a second to regroup. The taste is stale and mineral-y. Pat supposes even the fanciest of places have shitty water supplies these days. 

Even with Brian and his stupidly pretty face elsewhere, it’s hard to focus on his next move when the environment around him is so bizarre. The sound of a bottle pops and fizzes somewhere else in the saloon, followed by a boisterous spell of laughter. Doves drape themselves on the patrons around him, some taking turns to drizzle syrup across their necks and chests for clients to lick up. Glasses and plates and high-heels clatter against table tops. Entrancing music fills in the few gaps between the roaring chatter and shrieks of pleasure. 

Pat’s seen a lot of weird shit in his time but the energy of the brothel definitely throws him for a loop. Since he’d left the church, Pat had come to enjoy indulgence whenever possible, but _ this _ overt hedonism was next level- and kind of hypnotic.

When he turns to talk to Jeff, the red-cheeked dove was gone. Jeff is now occupied with a vine of small grapes, his half-smoked joint forgotten in a little tin ashtray between them. He holds out the bunch for Pat to pluck some off.

Pat raises his voice a bit over the chaos, “This place is absolutely nuts.”

“I know! They have actual fresh fruit here, isn’t this great?” 

A thrown pair of panties sails over their heads.

“I feel like I’m havin’ a fucking fever dream,” Pat mumbles as he pops a few grapes into his mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness on his tongue.

“Mm, a delicious fever dream. Everyone’s gonna be so jealous they didn’t get to come,” Jeff says into a chalice of wine that had, at some point, replaced his water. 

“So what’s the deal with Brian, what did you say to him?”

Pat runs his hands absentmindedly over his slacks, “I asked to see him in private so- I guess I’m gonna meet with him after this next performance.”

“Alrighty, going straight into it. What’s the game plan?”

“The guard over there- Jonah- is going to bring me to meet Brian, probably in one of the private rooms. You can stay on the saloon floor, just keep alert if, for whatever reason, we need to dip. I think I want to get a feel of his character and the situation before telling him who I am and our plan- just to get a sense of things.”

Jeff nods before he waves down another dove who carries a platter of bread. He hands them a few coins when they set down a couple slices on the table.

“Jesus, you’re hungry,” Pat comments, despite reaching for a piece himself. He envies Jeff’s nonchalance about coming here, Pat feels his nerves crawl at every raucous woop and flash of bared flesh.

“I miss the cooking at home! I feel like our food resources for this tour have been lackluster. There’s no way I’m passing up this place’s snacks- I’d say it’s the best out of all the places we’ve stopped during this stint.”

Pat hums in agreement and follows Jeff’s example by stuffing his face with the food while they wait. 

_________

Eventually, Pat registers the stage curtains gliding open again, barely catching the Duchess’s voice introducing the audience to the next performer under the roar of patrons. 

_ Something, something, piano solo… something, something, Apollo…. _

The garble of noise coming from the partying crowd simmers down a bit when they see a dove slowly striding on stage from the right. Pat knows it’s Brian- he said he’d be on next- but the stage is dark and the performer appears as just a feminine-looking silhouette, backlit by dim golden lights.

The entrancing click of the spindly heels he wears echoes throughout the room. _ How the hell does he walk in those towering death traps? _The delicate balance in each deliberate step towards a piano on the left hushes the audience further. 

When the spotlight fades in, Brian is leaning forward on the piano, one forearm bracing against the flat top with his other elbow resting on it as he caresses his own neck. An anonymous dove, unlit but visibly shorter, starts to play dutifully.

Brian’s new costume is extravagant to say the least. 

He’s wearing a full body corset that molds to his body dramatically, the sweetheart neckline accentuating his chest. The outfit is studded with little silver rhinestones, clusters of them adorning the heart-shape appliques on each breast and over his crotch. The rhinestones fringe off of the bottom of the corset like shining droplets while at the back drapes a feathered bustle. The plush train of feathers are thick and long enough to brush the floor, reminding Pat of a peacock. The entire ensemble is a pale sage green, bringing out Brian’s eye color. 

Brian gives a little longing sigh before his crimsoned lips part to sing, low and soft turning to a strong, bright sound. Pat’s captivated by how lovely it sounds while still slightly haunting.

_ “I’m beautiful, I know cuz it’s the season _

_ But what am I to do with all this beauty? _

_ Biology _

_ I am an organism, _

_ I’m chemical” _

Brian pushes up from the piano smoothly, flipping himself around so that his tailbone rests on the edge of the piano, leaning back on his arms braced behind him. He rolls his head from one shoulder to the other, “_ That’s all, that is all. _”

There’s a sudden burst back into those strong, high notes that sends a shiver down Pat’s spine. Brian presses his hand to his chest, wrist angling out dramatically before wandering down the tight cinch of his corset. Jeff hisses out, “Holy shit, his_ waistline_.”

_ “I’m liquid smooth, _

_ Come touch me too, _

_ And feel my skin is plump and full of life, _

_ I’m in my prime” _

He slides backwards until his back is pressed to the piano, turning his head to face the audience as he brings his legs upwards, angling them midair. 

Pat is blown away by the sheer flexibility of the kid- and the upper body strength it must take to keep so still as his legs twist and dance through the air.

_ “...I’m at my highest peak, I’m ripe, about to fall...” _

Brian brings up his legs even further until he’s curled into himself, toes reaching behind him as he rolls easily onto his shoulders and uprights himself in a flurry of tailfeathers, ending up in a low cat-pose on the piano body. Not even winded from the previous moves, he leaps into that bright voice again as he wiggles his bustle in the air, his hip movements making the feathers flounce._  
_ _“How I feel this river rushing through my veins...”_

He rolls up with the dip of his spine, now sitting back on his knees.

_ “With nowhere to go, it circles ‘round...” _

After Brian easily executes some more intense moves, windmilling and splaying his legs so obscenely Pat has to stare intently at the table’s wooden grain, Jeff whispers to him.

“Damn. With the way he can move- and in that corset too- he’d make a good addition to the caravan.” 

Pat’s too flustered to really consider the combative capabilities of that flexibility and strength. When he doesn’t respond to that, Jeff continues,

“At the very least, getting a room with him should be fun for you.”

Pat groans and prays to no one in particular.

_________

The guard- Jonah- eyes Pat once more before he leads him to Brian. Under Jonah’s scrutiny, he stands a little straighter and adjusts the lapels of his blazer over his sleek feathered shirt. Despite the near-gentle roundness of his face, the man wears a look that is definitely warning Pat to not pull any shit with Brian. Pat keeps his expression carefully neutral, making sure his usual sharp-edged stare doesn’t look off-putting.

They walk through the corridor closest to the stage, the colored lighting and muffled voices fading behind them. The halls are mainly quiet, the sounds of their footsteps are dampened by the mismatched carpets and low ceilings. 

Every now and then they pass rooms that produce noises that sends a hot rush of embarrassment up Pat’s neck. A lot of doves are already at work.

Jonah comes to a stop at the end of one of the halls at one of the rooms. Above its shut door hangs a wreath of dried roses and little bells, Pat had noticed similar bundles of flowers on each room’s frame. Jonah knocks at the door, “Your client’s arrived.”

The door swings open and suddenly there’s Brian, leaning close against the frame and smiling brightly at Pat. He’s still in costume but the ginormous tail-feathers are detached from his bodice, hanging on an armoire further into the room.

“Thanks, Jo! I think can handle him from here,” he says with a once-over at the man in front of him, double-entendre not lost on him. He’s tapping his golden fingernails excitedly on the door frame.

Jonah stares down Pat one last time before turning away, gruffly calling out, “Just give me a ring if you need me.”

Brian rocks forward and beckons Pat in. He obliges and enters the room, ducking a bit under the door frame. The room is filled with colorful decor- little trinkets and photos that are too personal to be in some random entertaining room. This must be Brian’s bedroom. 

The dove shuts the door behind Pat as he looks around and before he can say anything, Brian’s hands are on Pat’s shoulders. 

“Don’t be so shy, talk to me! Make yourself at home! Sorry it’s so cluttered- all the other rooms tonight are reserved or being cleaned up.” He guides him to the chaise lounge in the corner, hands eagerly pressing but gentle.

“But really, I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

Pat smothers a small smile at Brian’s hospitable disposition that so quickly turns into blatant flirting. He settles into the lounge but when he looks up, Brian’s leaning closely over him, only a whiff of sweet perfume between them. 

“Soo, what are you thinking for tonight?”

Pat scrambles for something to say, something to ask for that makes sense for a client but won’t be too overwhelming. Brian seems to pick up on this, expression playful but kind when he suggests, “Why don’t we start small- costume on or off?”

“Um, on please. Costume on is good…” Pat blurts out. His cheeks already feel like they’re on fire.

“Ooh! Big fan of corsets, I see,” Brian says gleefully before taking Pat’s hands in his own, guiding them to his waist. “You can touch, if you like.”

Pat awkwardly lets Brian place his hands on his hips, unsure if pulling away would seem strange. He clears his throat a bit as his thumb brushes over the silk paneling of the outfit, idly tracing around the rhinestones, “So- this is your room? You get it all to yourself, no roommates?”

Brian seems pleased by Pat’s slight movements along his waist, basking under the gaze roaming up his body. “Mm- yep! I’ve been here a long time so I’ve more than earned my own place.”

Pat’s a little less on edge at this, information-gathering is more his speed. Brian must notice him visibly relax at the idle chit-chat, since he continues on. 

“It’s too cramped for another person in here anyways- otherwise I wouldn’t mind rooming with my sister.” He grins at Pat, “It gets lonely, but every now and then I find myself in good company.”

Pat smooths his hands up from Brian’s hips to rest them innocently at his ribcage, cataloguing the confirmation that Laura’s still living in the brothel too.

Brian steps out of his hold and further into his space, until he’s sitting on one of Pat’s thighs, both of his legs tucked in between Pat’s own. 

“So don’t worry about roommates. You have me allll to yourself, babe.”

The kid’s gaze holds Pat’s electrifyingly, there is something so _ heated _ in it, but its intensity makes Pat’s hair stand on end. The weight of him in Pat’s lap, pressing him against the velvet cushions is enticingly distracting. 

Brian’s hands press against his chest, smoothly sliding upwards and hooking his thumbs to take off Pat’s blazer. _ Shit _.

Pat stammers a bit, “Uh- okay, so-”

“Don’t worry, I’ll put it aside so it doesn’t get messy.” Brian smirks mischievously as he flings the blazer behind him. 

Just as quickly, deft hands sneak their way under Pat’s shirt, “Ooh, you got some _ muscle _\- I bet you’re all rough and tumble out in the desert, why don’t you put em to good use tonight?”

Pat’s shirt is on the floor before he can even think of what to do next- it’s a little hard with a lapful of determined flirtiness whose soft hands keep roaming all over him. Brian easily shifts so that he’s straddling Pat with both legs, hands running down Pat’s bare torso towards-

“Brian!” Pat raises his voice a bit, strained and ruffled, “Oh my god_ , _ slow your roll _ please- _”

“... How do you know my name?”

_________

The man beneath him looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Moments ago Brian was eager for this session- the man Brian had caught staring was good-looking and seemed more considerate than most clients. An easy shift, some comfortable fun for the night.

Now Brian’s tempted to reach for the cord dangling next to his bed, which runs along the ceiling to the alarm wreath above his door. But against his better judgement, he’s genuinely curious as to how the man knows _ him- _ not Apollo- _ Brian _.

The man sighs after a beat of silence, leaning back a bit so that Brian isn’t so close to his face. Brian can’t help but notice the black ink sprawling across the man’s skin as he shifts.

“Sorry-” he starts, “I- “ he shakes his head, “I should’ve just told you everything from the get go. Um. Where do I start...” The man looks sheepish, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he considers what to say next- it would look endearing if Brian wasn’t so startled.

He’s even more surprised when he’s offered a handshake. 

“My name’s Pat.”

Brian snorts at the formality but indulges him, primly accepting the other’s hand.

“Charmed. That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m close friends with someone you used to know-” Pat cuts himself off as he remembers something and scans the room- was he searching for a recorder of some sort?

“You can talk freely in here, they don’t care enough to bug our rooms.”

Pat relaxes at this, his broad shoulders losing a little bit of the tension he’s been carrying since Brian laid eyes on him. When he speaks again, Brian could have never guessed what he was about to tell him.

“You remember Simone. She escaped with us a couple years back- “us” meaning our gang, Polygon. She sent me here.”

Brian feels a rush of shock and disbelief and overwhelming glee burbling somewhere low inside him where he’d long ago stashed his sense of hope. He leaps out of Pat’s lap, unable to put his thoughts together, torn between elation and utter confusion.

“But-” Brian’s head reels, “that’s impos-” unable to think coherently, “How?” He tries to cut his rambling short, to rein in his emotions around this stranger. But Brian can’t help being awestruck. “Simone’s alive!?”

Pat smiles a little at Brian’s reaction. His voice rumbles out fondly, “Somehow, yes. I’ve been travelling alongside her for a while and she’s pulled a lot of dumb shit.”

When Simone hadn’t returned from a house call all that time ago, Brian begged Jonah to find out information from the other guards on what had happened. From what they gathered, both Simone and the client she’d been visiting were killed in a rogue attack. The guards sent to retrieve her didn’t find her- it seemed a waste of time to search the wreckage of the house for some whore. 

Brian remembers Laura being inconsolable for quite some time. 

Even though Pat doesn’t appear malicious, Brian can’t help the fight or flight instincts firing off in his head. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? I don’t know you at all, much less what you want.”

Pat doesn’t look offended by his suspicion, just thoughtful for a moment before he says, “Well, I can tell you things only Simone would know... Your name is Brian, you have an older sister named Laura. You’ve been here...at least since you were sixteen? And when Simone worked here as a dominatrix, she and Laura had a thing of some sort. Knocking boots, for lack of a better term.”

He can’t believe it. Simone’s really alive.

“Oh my god- Laura’s gonna freak when I tell her! I can’t wait to see-”

Brian pauses. Simone couldn’t set foot in the brothel without being spotted and inevitably shackled to her contract again. He doesn’t blame Simone for not coming herself, he’d do the same if he was free- well. Freedom isn’t an idea he really allows himself to entertain. No chance of it ever coming, and he’d often tell himself- when Brian did think about this- that being pampered and fawned over isn’t the worst alternative. 

He shoos away that train of thought with a shake of his head, his mind filling up with questions. Brian picks an easy one to ask about,

“Why are you here then?” 

Pat rubs at his arm where a spray of poppies climbs up his bicep in pitch black. Leaning forward, his dark eyes look scheming as he settles on the simplest answer he can muster.

“The long and the short of it is we’re gonna bust you guys out of here.”

_________

The kid’s a good listener, and it’s hard to not notice the intelligent glint in his eyes when Pat gives him the rundown. The basics of what the caravan is, Simone being in charge, looking around for suspicious activity, stealing weed, etc. Pat’s amazed at how quickly Brian catches up with the plan- his instant resolve makes it feel like he’d been in on the scheme the entire time.

Pat tells Brian that he’ll return soon enough to gather more info and hopefully have more details if he returns with the news that Brian’s onboard. Brian immediately says yes- half shouting in his eagerness- and that he’ll explain everything to Laura as soon as possible.

Brian’s a lot wrigglier now, fidgeting next to Pat while he waits for Pat to pull his shirt back over his shoulders. The composed grace he held himself with earlier had been left on stage.

“Sorry for trying to jump your bones,” he says, his tone not sounding sorry at all.

Pat can’t hold it against him- that little smile is hard to be mad at. Besides, it was Brian’s job to jump his bones.

“No, no. Sorry I didn’t tell you who I was sooner. I was a bit overwhelmed by everything.”

“I can’t believe this is happening… We’re really going to be able to leave.” Brian flops against the plush armrest, still not showing the slightest discomfort in the slimming corset, lost in thought. He pipes up again, “So, you’ll take us back to where Simone and the rest of your gang are set up?”

Brian’s confident that this is going to work. Pat finds himself resolving to do everything he can to make sure Brian is right.

“More or less. It’s a bit of a drive, the caravan usually goes on tours for long periods of time so we’re pretty far out. I can tell you more about the base and everything in upcoming visits. I should head out soon.”

Brian sits up. “It sounds like it’ll take a while for us to actually _ leave _, but- I want to help in whatever way I can. I’ll make sure each visit counts, that this goes as smoothly as possible.” Pat nods, looking away from the other, the determination in Brian’s eyes burning through him like he’s made of flash paper.

“We can talk more next time- for now I have to consult with the others and figure out what to ask you. Just mull everything over in the meantime. Also, think about what you wanna pack. I can take everything back to the vehicles in multiple trips.” 

Pat shrugs his blazer back on and runs a hand through his hair. 

“How can I see you again?”

“Bring back a courting gift, say you _ need _ to give it to me.” Brian falls into a lovesick pose, fluttering his eyelashes. This pulls a strange noise from Pat, caught somewhere between entertainment and embarrassment. 

The performer snaps out of it, smirking at Pat.

“I’ll make sure Jonah knows to let you back here.” 

Brian springs up from the lounge, breaching the gap from his dresser in a couple steps. He picks up a heart-shaped chocolate box and opens it to show Pat as an example. The divots where chocolate should be held common minerals and stones, their earthy colors polished and smooth. “Doesn’t have to be anything big, just something sentimental. It shows that you’re hooked on me, that you’re a potential regular,” he explains with a wink.

“Okay, I can do that. I’ll be back in a day or so with something.”

“I look forward to it. This is all so exciting!” Brian beams at him, and it does some fluttery bullshit to Pat’s heart that he’s _ not _ down with. He still can’t help returning the smile as he heads for the door. 

Jeff’s probably itching to leave soon, the performances pushed them into the early morning and it would be nice to get some rest back at camp. Plus, Pat would like to deal with minimal teasing on how long he’d spent alone with Brian.

“Oh, and Pat? One more thing.”

“Hm?”

“You’re a real gentleman, but if we’re gonna pull this off, you’ll have to get comfortable with acting like you can’t keep your hands off me.”

Pat coughs a bit, red tinting his cheeks. He mumbles, “I know- I’ll try to get used to it,” suspecting that getting in that mindset might be a little too easy.

Brian leans against his dresser, the constellations of rhinestones across his body catching the paper lanterns’ light. It casts a glow more arresting than anything Pat’s seen in the glint of gunmetal. He settles a hand on Pat’s shoulder assuringly, pomegranate mouth quirking into a smile.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work it all out together. It’ll be fun!”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeff is such a mood he’s just here to have a good time lmao. The song performed in this chapter is Liquid Smooth by Mitski. It is a gorgeous song, if you haven't heard it, go give it a listen. Let me know what you think, I love hearing from yall and comments definitely fuel my writing motivation :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry I dropped off the face of the earth, mental illness, school and family stuff got overwhelming for a bit. But I'm back and I wrote a ton! thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> The myth mentioned is the part of the Odyssey that occurs in Circe's palace. Pat's got a lotta tattoos so more will be revealed eventually. And the banana reference just sort of happened, idk I like to think about what foods are rare/hard to get in post-apoc conditions. Oh and I got overeager and posted without having someone beta, its probably fine. There's a fun guest appearance at the end too ;P Overall there's a lot of dialogue in this one, I really hope you enjoy!

When Brian finally gets the chance to tell Laura, her reaction is about as ecstatic as he expects- the same disbelieving joy he experienced when Pat revealed everything. Both of them have always been easy criers, and Laura’s eyes stream at Simone’s survival and the prospect of finally escaping. 

He knows Laura would never say it, but despite the place she’d carved for herself here, she’s grown tired of being afraid for herself, for Brian, for every new ward she’d eventually lose to the syrup and the Duchess’s wishes. After the initial happy tears, something more complicated overtakes her expression when Brian mentions the topic of who would come with. It was clear that it was risky enough with just the two of them. 

Brian’s mind was already made up that Jonah was going. No questions about it. Brian happens to tell him before Laura, when he spots the other patrolling near his room. Despite the initial suspicions he has to ease Jonah out of, the relief on his friend’s face is apparent as he wraps Brian into a hug.

But beyond the now trio, it was just unrealistic to take more than one other person, and Brian anticipates the difficulty of their choice. Laura’s own guilt would be enough to crush both of them. Brian hated to think about it, but nearly all of the doves were dependent on Duke’s codeine. Their usage was so regular, they’d never last long when apart from a constant supply.

He knew down to the soles of his feet that she would choose Rowan.

The duke and duchess were, unfortunately, taken with Rowan, the newest and most petulant dove. She’s girlish and sightly, with a fragile-looking face and cornsilk hair. Beyond her looks, she is the worst choice to put on the working roster. Rowan is sour towards most, despises being touched, and rarely speaks. None of those qualities stopped Laura from befriending and caring for her, but they indicate that her life would be miserably difficult when she was inevitably made a full-time worker. Rowan is the youngest member of the duchess’s flock, barely fifteen, but Laura regards each new day with dread. She knows from experience with Brian that Rowan’s fate creeps closer. 

Laura probably wants to succeed in where she felt she’d failed in protecting sixteen-year-old Brian. He knows he can do nothing more to convince her that he doesn’t blame Laura, years of his adamancy have worn away at her self-criticism. So Brian gently tells her the last person to come along is her choice- giving her the chance to redeem herself in the way she desperately wants to.

It was the obvious choice. Rowan never touches the codeine rations, since her job was just maintaining the entertainment rooms, and therefore would avoid withdrawals. Within the hour, Laura invites the girl and explains everything to her.

Brian’s mind is exhausted from whirring around all these considerations, and yet his thoughts keep wandering back to Pat. 

The man radiated with something dangerous- not hostile, simply a rugged vigilance that warded off threats. Brian is fairly decent at reading people, which is beneficial in this line of work, but he feels confident that the sharpness held in Pat’s wiry frame was only a defense system. He’d treated Brian so politely, it was almost amusing how out of his depth Pat had seemed in the face of Brian’s flirtations. And when alone in Brian’s room, the harsh set of his jawline softened as he talked about Simone and the others that formed the mysterious gang.

It didn’t help that he’d been a little struck by the capable furrow of Pat’s brow or the stark tattoos that sprinted across his body, thin but clearly muscled. 

Brian pouts when Laura gets a knowing look in her eye as he describes the former stranger to her. Their little makeshift family is crammed into her room; Rowan slouches quietly in front of Brian as he braids her hair, her hands deftly rolling joints to add to a little pile at her feet. Laura’s scrubbing stains out of a bustier and Jonah snoozes, on one of his rare breaks, with Zuko tucked into his arms.

Brian squawks indignantly, “Don’t gimme that look, Laura! It’s not my fault I can appreciate certain aesthetics…”

“Mhm. Well I can’t wait to meet him, if he’s a friend of Simone’s then I’m sure we’ll all get along famously,” Laura replies, hanging the soaked garment from the ceiling to dry. She eyes the clock on her wall, the minute hands peeking out from broken and fogged up glass.

“Don’t you have a private dance scheduled soon?”

Brian jolts a bit, cursing at himself. He’s usually super on top of his schedule, to the point where Laura pesters him to take it easy, but focusing on work has been difficult as of late. Brian paws at the floor blindly until he finds a hair tie, “It’s a short one but I have to be there in five minutes… let me just-”

Rowan impatiently yanks her head away from Brian, tugging the plaits taut.

“Hurry up! I have to meet with Daisy and Luca to clean the bath house, it’s best to get it out of the way during slow days.”

Brian hurriedly ties the ends and pulls on each braid, partially to check his work and partially to tease her. She makes a fussy yelp and springs out of reach, gangly limbs propelling her out of the room. He laughs out after her, “Have fun scrubbing!”

Jonah and Zuko stir awake at the commotion, the latter making a raspy sound of protest when Jonah sits up.

Brian winces at having woken them. “Sorry Jo.”

“No no, I should get back on duty anyways.”

“Pat said he’d come either yesterday or today, so-”

Jonah stretches and places a hand on Brian’s shoulder, leveraging himself to stand up and thumbing at his collarbone as he goes.

Jonah yawns and raises an eyebrow. “I know, I know. When I see him, ‘Send him your way!’”

Brian stays quiet at that, only moving to grab the costume Laura laid out for him. He knows Jonah noticed Brian’s eagerness yesterday, catching his eye scoldingly every time Brian would not-so-subtly crane his neck towards the parlor’s entrance.

As Jonah heads towards the door, he deposits Zuko into Laura’s arms. His voice stays neutral but firm before he turns to leave, 

“Bri, remember to be careful about all this.”

_________

Pat supposes the brothel doesn’t get a ton of activity in the early day. Many of the rooms’ doors are left ajar, some glimpsing into common rooms and alcoves. Most of the quarters are larger than Brian’s, but they overflow with small bunk beds and are strewn with clothes hung up to dry. 

The brothel, softened by what little sun that had crept in, and its halls absent of pounding music, roaming clients and saturated light, reconciles two images tugged from Pat’s memories. 

The rooms, their walls crowded with nooks and shelves, reminded him of the swelling cliffs of canyons he’s travelled along, etched with cavities where flocks of sand martins nested. They also remind Pat of monasteries he’d heard about a couple times while he was a part of the church- homely, but only as much a place could be under the burden of disciplined devotion. Completing the comparison forces Pat to realize the brothel’s morning-time likeness is of a convent, if the subject of worship was utter, heathened pleasure.

It’s strange, how unguarded the rooms he’s passed through have been, he’d only spotted a single guard since Pat has arrived, and he was fast asleep behind the parlor’s countertop. 

Pat passes by the forms of doves, either limp with sleep or bleary-eyed against the daylight as they play cards for a pile of assorted treasures: gold-foiled joints, a small book, colored pencils, a bullet-sized vial of syrup, glass marbles, a spool of ribbon. 

He keeps finding himself imagining Brian somewhere in the piles of doves, entangled among the throng of arched backs, bared chests and hunger-thinned limbs. Glassy gazes follow him with mild intrigue, striped by the light filtering through sand-crusted windows. None of the faces he glimpses possess Brian’s keen stare, so Pat continues down the hall, somewhat haunted by the surreal scene.

Rounding a bend, Pat nearly runs into someone before swerving aside at the last second.

“Whoa- watch where you’re going.” 

It’s Jonah, looking at Pat blankly, no longer greeting him with a hostile look but not suspiciously friendly either. Although, it’s a bit unnecessary: the two of them are alone in the hall right now. 

“No one’s escorting you back here?”

“The guard at the front was asleep,” Pat offers by way of explanation.

Jonah looks exasperated at that, scrubbing a hand over his face and muttering something about his lazy coworker. Pat can’t help but to chuckle lightly, although he’s had his fair share of sleeping on the job in his younger days. Tara busted his ass for it. 

Jonah eyes him for a moment before he starts down the hall, “Well, we should get you checked in, follow me back up front for a moment.”

Pat follows in tow, quietly wondering whether Brian had even explained to Jonah why Pat was here. Jonah didn’t seem like a naturally unkind person, but Pat supposes he is in no position to judge Jonah for acting so cautious.

Back in the parlor, Jonah pointedly slams the guestbook down on the counter, startling the other guard to attention. He ignores the other’s half-hearted excuses about dozing off and stays turned to Pat, all business, charcoal stub in hand to jot his name in the book.

“And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Pat clears his throat and remembers Brian’s advice. The other guard leers in the corner, a leather patch obscuring one of his eyes. He waits for Pat’s response with poorly disguised interest. For the mission’s sake, the brothel workers should become familiar with Pat and his obsession with one of the doves, but he’d better nail his act under this eyepatch dude’s watch.

“I’m here to court one of the doves I met the other night.”

The charcoal scratches against the paper. 

“And this dove is...?” Jonah prompts.

Pat thinks about Brian’s startled response to his true name and a smile tugs at his mouth when he remembers the other’s expressiveness. 

“A bright little thing named Apollo.”

He, for once, lets fondness flash across his face unfettered. It works well, judging by the approving look Jonah gives him. 

The other guard looks unsurprised by another lovey dovey client, he just leans back in his chair and drawls, “He’s a cute little slut for sure. Popular too. You got a gift or somethin’? Doves don’t like to waste time courting cheapskates.”

Pat pulls out the gift, feeling its cool metal weight in his palm as he shows it to the guards. Jonah’s eyes widen and Eyepatch makes a low whistle. Eyepatch’s hand reaches out greedily to inspect it further before Pat tucks it back into his jean pocket.

Jonah closes the guestbook, “Well, let’s go find him then.”

_________

When Jonah leaves Pat in Brian’s empty room, claiming the dove will show up sooner or later, Pat can't help but feel bizarre, twiddling his thumbs on the giant lounge alone. 

A strange noise breaks the silence, catching his attention- it sounds like an animal but is indecipherably gravelly. When he feels something nose at his ankle, Pat lifts his boots in the air, careful to avoid snagging the creature, their fronts being laced up with barbed-wire. Peering under the lounge, he makes out a cat in the shadows, the white against its black coat giving away its hiding spot.

By the time Brian bursts into his room, the cat has curled up comfortably in Pat’s lap, purring as he scritches its chin. Both Pat and his new furry acquaintance startle at Brian’s sudden appearance.

Brian’s face lights up at the sight of them in a mixture of surprise and delight. 

“Pat! It’s good to see you again, I was wondering if you’d show up today!”

Pat smiles in greeting, while trying not to stare too obviously. Brian’s wearing another skimpy costume, but this one’s a whole different flavor than what Pat’s seen him wear on stage. 

Brian’s decked out completely in what looks like calf-skin, its caramel leather forming the better part of his outfit, besides a pair of cream-colored panties. Pat sucks in a breath as he takes in the complicated harness criss-crossing Brian’s sweat-shined torso and the ridiculous (far too ridiculous to affect Pat so greatly) assless chaps. 

This place really is wild if they can afford to turn high quality tanned leather into cowboy lingerie.

“I see you’ve met Zuko,” Brian leans on the door to shut it behind him, the fringes on his pants flouncing dramatically with the movement. “Did I keep you waiting long?”

“Ah, it was no bother. Zuko was good company.” He strokes at the space in between the cat’s ears. “I’m missing my own cat right now, I had to leave him back home for this mish. Knowing Charlie, he’ll fix me with the world’s saddest face and demand chicken scraps as payment for leaving him so long.”

Brian laughs as he locks the door and starts to work at the fastenings of his harness, “Gotta love the manipulative little bastards. I’m sure Zuko and he will be partners in crime.” 

Pausing momentarily, Brian leans in close and runs a thumb over Pat’s wrist. 

“Is that him?” he asks, inspecting where Pat had tattooed Charlie’s paw print. Pat has had to retouch it a couple times to keep the ink as dark as he liked, its original ink had faded from when he first adopted the cat.

He smiles at the memory, “Yep. It was such a pain to get him to hold still so I could get a clear print.”

Brian chuckles and resumes fidgeting with the buckles at his chest until the harness clunks to the ground.

“Whoo, as much as I love this getup, it feels good to take this thing off,” the dancer presses against the pattern left by the leather, shapes and lines indenting his skin. 

Pat swallows and focuses on petting Zuko with renewed vigor. “I hope I’m not intruding if you’re busy…” 

“No, not at all! I just finished up a lap dance- lucky for me, it was my last session for the day. I wanna spend some more time together, get to know more about everything.” 

Pat finds himself pleasantly warmed at Brian’s easy friendliness, if not a bit surprised. He is rarely regarded so kindly during his missions away from Polygon. The other doesn’t catch his blinking response, much too focused on changing.

“Will you be spending the night? No one’s gonna bother us, you could stay until tomorrow morning if you wanted.” Brian shucks off the chaps and ducks behind a sheer-paneled dressing screen.

“I mean, that’s what I was planning on so that works. I brought a duffel to take some stuff back with, plus the uh, courting gift you had asked for.”

Brian pokes his head out from the screen, vibrating eagerly. “Ooh, I want to see it! You made sure to show it off to the front desk, right?”

Pat remembers Jonah and Eyepatch’s response and nods, rubbing his neck sheepishly. Maybe the gift was too much, maybe Brian will think it’s a bit overkill. He runs the edge of his thumb over the gift’s etched pattern self-consciously. 

Pat stalls, “But, uh, hold your horses there. If you want to see your gift, you have to show me what you brought to take back to camp first. And finish getting dressed!”

“Fine,” Brian groans, his little face screwing up in exasperation before it disappears behind the screen.

Zuko hops off of Pat’s lap, leaving him to absently twist one of the iron rings on his fingers and guiltily steal glances at the silhouette behind the screen.

When Brian re-emerges, having only put on a transparent flowy button-up over panties, Pat has to send him back once more to throw on a pair of shorts, because _ Jesus, _ he’s only a man.

Finally clothed, Brian’s busying himself with lugging over a burlap sack to where Pat sits, the forget-me-not blue gauze of his shirt glistening as he moves.

Confused, Pat watches Brian empty the sack into the overnight bag, a clanking mass of trinkets spilling out.

“What’s all this?” he asks.

“They’re metal thread spools left over from Laura’s years of tailoring. We never found a good use for them, but they could be melted down into bullets or something.”

Christ, the kid’s sharp. Jenna and Clayton are gonna love having new metal on the road, he can already hear them talking about new gadgets and welding and weaponry. 

Pat tries not to look too pleased with Brian’s resourcefulness but obviously fails because Brian starts glowing with pride, blush clinging to his cheeks. “I figured since you’ll be coming back a lot, we can carry a ton of shit out of here.”

Straightening, Brian tilts his chin up and says in a mock-haughty voice, “I’ve complied with all of your requests- even wearing my bleached jorts that I was saving for tomorrow- surely you are a man of your word?”

Pat sighs, playing along, “I suppose I am, you’ve made good on your part of the deal.” Unable to stall any longer, he takes the gift from his pocket and presses it into Brian’s hands, “I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to get, but-”

Brian turns the brass lighter over in his hands, eyes wide and mouth open in wonder. Rosy fingertips come up to feel the engraved dove Pat had etched delicately onto the lighter’s surface, its wingspan open in flight.

In Brian’s stunned silence, Pat rushes to fill it, stumbling over his words nervously, “Sorry the dove’s a little wobbly-looking, I’m out of practice- we haven’t had access to drawing materials in a while-”

“Pat, you did this yourself?” Brian interrupts, awed gaze now turned from the lighter to Pat’s face.

He feels shyness creeping up his throat under Brian’s attention. 

“Yeah… but it wasn’t too difficult to engrave, it’s not actually that different from using a tattoo gun-” a soft _ oof _ escapes from him as Brian pulls him into a sudden hug. Pat can’t help but notice how nicely Brian’s chin fits tucked against his shoulder, especially when he’s got a faceful of tawny curls. He smells of clean sweat and bergamot oil.

“Thank you! I don’t think I've ever gotten something so nice and so thoughtful in my life. I can’t believe you hand-engraved that yourself, you’ve been holding out on me! Does that mean you did all of your tattoos as well?”

Under the slew of praise and close proximity to Brian, Pat feels grateful to turn the topic to something else.

“I drew all of ‘em and tattooed most of them myself, but the hard-to-reach places are done by my friend Thomas. He was the first person I made friends with in the wasteland, and he taught me how to tattoo so I could make some money during my travels.”

He doesn’t mention that after leaving the church, he’d originally made money by brawling. That’s how Thomas found Pat, bruised and bloodied in a match held in a parking lot that had been turned into a betting ring.

Brian eyes Pat’s tattoos a little more reverently than before, hands clutching the lighter like he was trying to stop himself from tracing the barbed-wire coiling up Pat’s right forearm. 

“Is he part of Polygon too?” 

Pat tilts his head, shrugging, “Ehh, not really. Thomas likes to roam around- forge his own path and all that- but he’s a friend of the gang. That’s actually how I joined, Thomas knew Allegra and recommended me to Polygon.”

Green eyes flashing with interest at the new name, Brian brandishes the lighter at Pat.

“That head is full of so many stories! Care to help me break this bad-boy in and tell a couple over a joint?”

_________

Pat can’t tell if Brian has figured out that Pat rarely says no when offered weed, or if Brian just really enjoys lighting up too. Honestly, he doesn’t care about the answer when his thoughts feel light and it feels so good just to exist, drifting through this moment with Brian, who watches him with moon-blown eyes, smiling silly while he tries to blow smoke rings.

It turns out that it is possible for Pat to enjoy talking about himself, his history. That is, when he can focus on telling the kid about the people in his life now, the good ones that Pat had long felt he didn’t deserve. He decides to save the earlier backstory for another time- if ever- since talking about what it was like for Pat before Polygon will surely knock Brian’s enraptured little smile off of his face.

Instead he talks about Tara’s expected baby, about the way Griffin softened around the edges when Rachel joined, about Jenna’s days drag racing for coin, about how Travis lovingly tends to his pack of dogs, about the times Sydnee’s medical skills saved Pat’s life, about Adam’s delicious cooking, about the way the older member’s kids would sing and catch possums to present proudly to their dismayed parents.

It also turns out that Brian is quite the skilled raconteur. He takes little pieces of what Pat says and runs with it, weaves it into a story about the other doves, about the mythological figures he loves to read about or some flowery prose piece he had somehow memorized. It’s nice, the ebb and flow of their conversation as they pass a joint between them, with Brian keeping the energy up just enough with questions and quips. It feels strangely familiar to how Pat gets around certain Polygon folk.

Pat’s currently trying to hold back a peal of laughter as Brian reacts animatedly to a story Pat had recounted from his earlier days in the caravan. He’s a little obsessed with the way Brian switches from absently flicking the lighter open and shut to waving his hands wildly to emphasize whatever he’s saying.

“I cannot _ believe _you guys managed to mix up a shipment of bananas with a shipment of iron-”

“Listen,” Pat grins exasperatedly, “I told you, it was entirely Griffin’s fault! And he’d never seen the dang things before, so he bit right into one, peel and all. People still give him shit about it.” He chuckles, “But honestly, the train car of bananas had enough security swarming around, it might as well have been iron.”

“Bananas are so rare though, of course there’d be extra security. I wonder if the banana guards were allowed to eat any.” Brian closes his eyes, indulging in some imagination of what the fruit would taste like.  
“Pat,” his eyes snap open and he giggles. “Pat, oh my god, what if banana guards were just people armed with bananas? What a scene would that be, you swinging in all rugged and scary, only to be in a shoot-off with guys wielding bananas?”

“Would that make the peel the equivalent of a bullet-shell? Or an extension of the weapon- people could slip on them and fall to their dooms.”

“Maybe that’s how you’re fated to end, death by a comically phallic fruit.”

“Who am I to outrun fate? If that’s how I go, I welcome it with open arms.”

Brian sits up quickly, jolting out of Pat’s immediate space like he had just remembered something.

“Fate! There’s a myth I’ve been meaning to read…”

He rummages through a pile of papers from one of his desk drawers, scattering them everywhere as he searches for something. 

Pat stands to follow him and picks up one of the fallen sheets, scanning over the messy handwriting. A few pages are nonsensical, fragments of a brainstorm session that Pat can’t quite put together, some are written stage directions, or more practical notes and analyses of stories. 

After much shuffling and muttering about the book’s binding coming loose, Brian finally collects a weathered set of paper. He looks over to where Pat stands, startling a bit.

“Agh! Uhm- don't bother reading all that, it's all just nonsense I jot down, really,” Brian says embarrassedly, shooing him away from the papers.

Pat lets the other pull the papers from his grasp easily, but Brian’s insistence does nothing to pull the bits of writing from Pat's mind. Everyone at Polygon can read and write basically, a blessing most people don’t have nowadays, but Pat only knows a few people who write at this level. 

“No- these are really good,” he starts insistently, “You weren’t kidding when you said you write all the performances. I know only a handful of folks back home that can write well- but you- you’re undeniably smart, kid.”

Brian looks pink and pleased but doesn’t meet Pat’s eyes. “Geez, you really know how to lay it on thick, huh.” 

Shoving the unbound book into Pat’s emptied hands, Brian waves off Pat’s observation, “You caught me, I love writing everything and anything. But never mind that, I got this new myth I've been wanting to read but haven't gotten around to- this translation’s written way too small.” 

Brian settles back into the lounge and gestures to it expectantly, apparently wanting Pat to read it aloud.

Pat blinks a bit as he puts the pieces together, and then becomes more aware than usual of the wire frames Clayton found for him, resting on the bridge of his own nose.

“Brian, do you need glasses?”

His gaze, normally unrelenting, flicks away from Pat, seeming to queue up a non-answer, 

“Reading’s the only thing that gets inconvenient- I usually get Laura or Jo to read the smaller scripts to me when I can't make it out…”

“The duke would never waste money on glasses for a whore anyways,” Brian adds lightly, then assumes a near cruel tone as he quotes, “Not like I need ‘em when all I have to see are the dicks right in front of my face!” He laughs half-heartedly, “All the same, they’d probably get broken within a night here.”

Then he goes quiet, like Brian feels awkward for bringing down the mood, and busies himself with lighting another joint.

Pat shouldn’t have brought it up, he feels like he’s pushed too far now, undeserving of this personal glimpse at Brian’s reality. But the guilt is doused easily under the wave of anger he feels. He can’t help himself from snarking, “What a righteous asshole.”

Brian laughs, surprised and somewhat relieved at the blunt words. 

“Yeah.”

Before Brian can say anything else, Pat scoots over and sits next to Brian, clearing his throat as he smooths out the paper scraps to read. Brian smiles gratefully and wriggles further into the lounge, getting comfortable. 

Unsure of how to recite the words when they’re arranged almost like a song, Pat eventually falls into a steady pace after Brian repeats the opening lines back to him rhythmically.

_ “Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy...” _

_________

For all the times he’s cursed his farsightedness, Brian’s infinitely grateful for it now that it’s allowed him to focus on the deep rumble of Pat’s voice. God, it’s maddening to listen to the smooth-rough quality of it, the sincere care Pat puts into reading in the right meter, the way he looks at Brian for approval when pronouncing each tongue-tripping name and _ wow _ Brian should really pay more attention to the story.

He’s honestly in a sensory heaven right now, surrounded by Pat’s coarse murmur, watching the man’s sharp profile cast warmly by the lanterns, running his thumb back and forth over the ridges of the engraved dove. 

Something inside him wants to needle at why he feels so safe in this moment, but Brian just closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy it.

Eventually Brian ashes the remainder of the joint and sobers up enough to chime in with little remarks, Pat and he taking turns at ridiculing the characters. 

They only get to the part where Elpenor falls drunkenly off Circe’s roof- “What an embarrassing way to go.” “Maybe he slipped on a banana peel, Pat, you won’t make fun of him when _ you _ face the same fate”- when someone comes rapping at Brian’s door. 

Pat abruptly stops reading and they look at each other quizzically. 

A muffled voice shouts something to someone down the hall and Brian recognizes it as Donut, an older dove. His voice then becomes clearer, probably pressing against the doorjamb, “Apollo? You in there? The Duchess is lookin’ for another playmate, she’s really riled up today.”

Brian jolts upright from his reclined position. _ Fuck _, he really doesn’t want to see her right now. He really doesn’t want to see anyone besides Pat right now. 

Thinking fast, he starts bouncing up and down on the lounge, its old springs creaking loudly. _ Improvise _ . He lets out a loud moan, pitches his voice all needy and breathy, “Mmph- not a good time, Donut! I’m witha- _ aahh _ john right now!”

He spares a glance at Pat, who’s watching this scene unfold with a red face, completely slack-jawed. Brian drops out of his patented “oh my god you’re the best at sex please tip me for stroking your ego” expression to raise both his eyebrows at Pat, trying to hint at him to join in. 

The man still looks like he’s forgotten how to function, lock-limbed rigid, so Brian elbows Pat under the ribs and earns the sharp groan he had been looking for. 

Whining for good measure, “Yes, yesss, harder- oh god, _ Pat- _”

Thankfully, that shocks another strangled noise out of Pat.

“Whoops, sorry to bug ya then. Keep working hard, babe!” Donut cackles as his voice fades away.

Silence falls over the room after Donut leaves, Brian stops bouncing and turns to face Pat. He’s staring at Brian with a stricken expression, like the soul just left his body.

Unable to stop the burble of laughter from spilling out, Brian tries to smother his grin into his palm. 

Pat snaps out of his mortification and heartily laughs along with Brian until the two of them dissolve into quiet giggles, sighing.

“Sorry if I elbowed you too hard,” Brian apologizes, rubbing at his smile-sore cheeks.

“You just took me by surprise, it takes a lot more to get me down for the count.” Pat blusters, running a hand through his dark hair.

“Uh-huh. Well, you sounded pretty _ down for the count _ to me.”

“Hey!” Pat rolls his eyes, grinning embarrassedly. “You gave me absolutely no warning about what you were up to, I could barely think, let alone play along!”

“Rule number one of improv, Pat. You gotta yes-and your partner.”

Brian undoes his shirt by a couple buttons, letting the oversized fabric slip off of one shoulder, takes Pat’s hand into his, “Maybe we should practice acting out another scene, hm?”

It’s too much fun to prod _ that _ expression out of Pat, part stunned and part aroused. What can Brian say, it’s hard to resist pushing the line a bit when it has such an effect on the older man. Buuut it’s going to be hard to pull off their plan if Pat freezes up every time instead of playing along.

“I’m serious though, you gotta stop overthinking it. You’re used to improvising on undercover missions, right? If a Polygon member says something, you go along with it out of trust. It’s the same thing here, with a bit more theatrical flair.”

“Sorry, I’m usually better at this,” Pat begins, “Being undercover normally just requires acting like a mean motherfucker, which unfortunately comes more naturally to me. If I ever yes-and someone on a mission, I’m saying something like _ yes _ we totally caught the snitch _ and _we killed him, just like the boss ordered!” 

This image of Pat, clad in charcoal clothes and bloodied sand and glinting barbed-wire acting like tough shit, shouldn’t do something for Brian but it does, it really, really does.

Then Pat hesitantly reaches over to gently slide the sleeve of Brian’s shirt back onto his shoulder, Pat’s warm touch barely brushing against skin, “But, I don’t want to be just another asshole that treats ya like they own you. I don’t want to do anything without your permission.” 

Oh, and now Brian can’t decide which he likes better, cold-blooded dangerous Pat or soft considerate Pat. 

Brian smiles, “I’m giving you permission, okay? To say whatever, to touch wherever, I don’t mind at all. I can tell you’re far from just another asshole, Pat, I know you'll handle me with care.”

Pat keeps looking at him with those dark eyes, intense and indecipherable.

“Okay. But you have to tell me if I ever cross a line.”

Holding out a pinky, Brian reassures him, “I promise, but there’s not many lines left. Especially for the people I trust."

Pat relaxes a bit at the token gesture, a ghost of a smile emerging as they link fingers.

“Just to warn you though, I, uh. I’m a bit out of practice with the whole flirting game.”

Brian scoffs with fake incredulity, “What? You’re not telling me that desert delinquent Pat isn’t drowning in sexual advances, are you?”

“No, no, no,” Pat snickers as he tries to deadpan, “I love fucking, I fuck all day, every day-”

Brian erupts with laughter and sinks back into the lounge, finding that he’s already looking forward to Pat’s next visit.

_________

There’s no windows in Brian’s room, but Pat can tell that it’s edging into night time as they quietly finish reading the rest of the myth. Neither of them move when Pat puts down the stack of pages, reluctant to break from the calm moment. Brian lays next to him, with an arm thrown over closed eyes, and for a moment Pat thinks the other has fallen asleep. Pat watches the soft rise and fall of his chest, notes how Brian’s spine curves towards him, comfortable and relaxed. It’s strange how quickly Brian appeared in his life, this brilliant, endlessly charming being who Pat feels like he’d known forever. Simone had been right to assume they’d become fast friends, but Pat’s still trying to figure out what he’s done in his entire gritty, messy life to deserve Brian’s trust.

“Thank you for reading to me,” Brian’s voice startles Pat from his reverie. Not asleep after all.

His voice comes out strangely soft when he answers,“Of course. It’s nice to take a break from things and just have a moment of peace, y’know?”

Round eyes peer out from under his arm, “Yeah. You have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a whole day to just be with someone else- without sex or fittings or rehearsals.”

Brian sits up, sighing, hands smoothing out his shirt, “I know we gotta talk shop sooner or later, but before we do, should I go get us something to drink?” 

“That would be great,” Pat says gratefully and watches the other slip out the door.

When he returns, a brass bowl of wine in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other, Brian gets to the meat of things as soon as the door shuts.

“Soo, I’ve already told Laura and Jonah,” he starts as he sets the food down on a side table.

Pat can’t help but be a bit surprised, “So Jonah does know that I’m here to help y’all? And like, the full extent of the plan?”

“Yeah. Has he been giving you a hard time? Jonah’s a bit overprotective sometimes, don't mind him acting all suspicious of you, it’s nothing personal. I think he’ll trust you more given time.”

Pat nods. “Alright, I’m not one to judge him for being wary.”

Brian cuts in, “And there’s one more person coming along, my sister wants to bring a younger dove, Rowan.”

So they gotta break four people out of the brothel. Okay. Pat can work with those odds.

“How old?”

“Fifteen. Hasn’t touched the codeine at all- she isn’t fully fledged yet, so she just does hospitality work. She’ll be a good help around the home camp, I promise,” Brian explains.

Pat blinks, “I’m not worried about her earning her keep, kid. You tell Laura that Rowan’s welcome to come along and make sure to give me whatever she wants to take with.”

The gratitude on Brian’s face doesn’t sit right with Pat. The fact that Brian’s used to people needing to give something in return for basic kindness makes Pat all the more eager to take them far from the brothel, hell, far from everything in this damn world. He reaches for the brass bowl of wine on the table and wincingly notices the basket of condoms and vials of lube and syrup next to it.

Still, Pat can understand why all the doves seem so passive about everything. No one is clamoring to leave, no one is planning an escape out of their own volition. Sure, they have to barter their bodies, but it’s worth it to stay in the brothel’s illusion of a pleasant haven. Brian’s myth, the story about Odysseus’s crew staying in Circe’s palace, drunken under her spell, parallels this bizarre refuge perfectly. 

They drink and discuss the brothel’s range of business operations for a while longer, eyelids growing heavier. Pat inquires about the possibility of human trafficking, to which Brian responds that all the new doves have joined independently due to need for shelter or safety. Only back when the Duke and Duchess were still trying to establish the brothel did they negotiate with Hostiles for their prettiest captives, torn from whatever town the gang had just raided. 

Brian sips wine nonchalantly as he recounts this, glossing over how _ he and Laura _were some of those captives. Pat doesn’t prod, just lets Brian continue explaining, but he can’t imagine what it was like for them. Most of the original doves still remain at the brothel, although a few were sold off to business partners a couple years ago, but the brothel’s prestige eventually brought enough attention that they ended up fully staffed without having to traffick. 

Pat takes comfort in the fact that Simone will be relieved to hear that the suspicious activity isn’t something as big as trafficking doves. Drumming his fingers against his legs, he watches the other move around the room to collect more bedding, both of them preparing to go to sleep.

“The Duke complains about how many doves the Duchess has dragged into the place, I don’t think they’re keen on bringing in fresh blood.” There’s a wicked gleam in Brian’s eye, like he’s piecing together a bigger picture, “I’m pretty certain that he’s expanding the drug trade beyond brothel clients, but I’ll have to talk to some people to get more info. Duke’s been away for a while on business and I have some theories I can confirm with some younger doves and a client or two.”

Pat’s intrigued by whatever Brian’s got up his sleeve, but he gets the sense from reading Brian’s exhaustive papers that the other won’t share until he’s perfected his argument and gathered more information. Already nodding off, he agrees through a yawn and drifts off.

In the morning, Pat wakes up to Brian getting ready for the day, having donned a white linen dress and scolding Zuko for stepping in his blush compact. Hearing the rest of the brothel starting to come to life, Pat bids the two farewell and promises to return soon. He shoulders the heavy duffel of metal spools and nods to Jonah when he pays on his way out. As far as progress goes, Pat’s pretty confident in what they’ve established so far. And if Simone keeps emphasizing how there’s no rush, how the mission’s got a spaced out timeline, he’s definitely not going to complain about spending more time with Brian.

_________

Rough has never really been Brennan’s style, but he isn’t gentle either. He’s a long-time regular and a good lay, commanding what he wants from Brian all calm and collected. Brennan always delivers on what he whispers into Brian’s ear, firmly pulling his thighs apart as he promises how good Brian’s gonna feel.

He’s taking his time with Brian today, riling him up only to back off, pausing to lay together, naked skin cooling while they chat idly. 

“I have to say, it’s been so long and you’re still lookin’ pretty as a summer evening,” Brennan drawls, hand clamped around Brian’s jaw so that he can get a good look at him.

Pulling free from Brennan’s grasp, he acts pouty, like leaving him alone for so long has put Brian off. “It’s only been a month or so, but it’s not like I’m getting any younger. What gives, I thought you’d be around more often?” 

“What, did ya miss me?” Brennan raises an eyebrow sarcastically, not falling for the schtick.

Brian lets the act fall, “Don’t let it go to your head, but you're not the worst client I have to see.” The more Brennan comes around, the less Brian has to schedule sessions with unpredictable randos. And again. He has certain theories he wants to confirm.

“Apollo, if I could, I’d show up every week to fuck you right.”

“But-?” Brian prompts, tugging gently at a fistful of red hair.

“Things aren’t so peachy with the triumvirate. I can’t go showing my face around the Duke’s turf unless he’s away.”

Brennan’s not only a good fuck, he’s in charge of a gang that rules a large chunk of the district. Sessions with him always yield good bits of information. 

Brian rolls onto his stomach and looks at Brennan with interest. 

The man laughs, “Jesus, I don’t know how he doesn’t see how smart you are. I knew you were poking around for something.”

“Who betrayed who?” Brian presses.

“All three of us really, but your Duke started it.”

“He’s not mine.”

“Well, you certainly aren’t his, are you?” Brennan wraps his large arm around Brian’s waist, admiring how thin it is in comparison.

Brian doesn’t respond for a moment, “You really think I’m smart?”

Pat doesn’t seem like someone who’d say things he didn’t mean, but “smart” and “prostitute” didn’t usually go hand in hand in Brian’s Duke-controlled narrative.

“Quick as a whip. If I were in charge around here, I’d make sure to keep an eye on you. You’re too smart for your own good,” Brennan answers honestly.

“Well in that case, cut the shit and tell me what he did,” Brian nips at Brennan’s collarbone. 

The redhead fits a finger between Brian’s teeth, letting him bite and suck there instead. “He’s expanding his sphere of influence, selling and trading heaps of drugs in parts of the district that don’t belong to him. He seems to forget that he’s not the only duke around”

“Is that why he’s been gone so long? Did you hurt him?” Brian pulls off the other’s pointer finger with a pop, plain curiosity in his voice. Loyalty was a weird thing for him- the lines between captor and care-taker were blurred when it came to the Duke and Duchess. But he wouldn’t be heart-broken if the Duke caught a bat with his ribs, per say.

“Should’ve. But we just ran him out of our territory and went back on a few triumvirate agreements. He’s probably taking so long because he has to find somewhere else to deal.”

“Darn.”

Thumbs press at the pulse-point of Brian’s neck, “Hah. I like it when you get like this. How d’you act like sunshine and flowers all the time, huh?”

Brian lets out a deep breath, feeling Brennan’s arm tighten around him with the movement. “Well, in my situation, I try to stay positive. Not everyone’s got entire city blocks and a buncha henchmen under their control.”

“Someday, maybe.”

“But he’s definitely churning out more weed than usual, right?”

Brennan’s getting impatient now, hoisting Brian on top of him.

“An unprecedented amount.”

Brian hums, satisfied with himself, glad he’ll have some new information for Pat. He leans down and Brennan captures his lips bruisingly.

“Well it’s a shame you’ll be coming around less. For what it’s worth, I think I will actually miss you. Not many people talk to me like a person. And not many people fuck like you do.” Brian purrs, grinning as Brennan flips them over, pinning Brian underneath him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, I love to hear from y'all and comments really keep me going.
> 
> Come say hi on my Tumblr @itsachaliceforyourthoughts or hit up my ko-fi ( ko-fi.com/bovinebby )
> 
> I also thought I'd share the playlist I made when figuring out how to write Brian in the context of the brothel, so if you're interested here's a link:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2qukshD74tXKyQ2BuGFzsf?si=_V0UMGAsTQaMQCdJihCJLQ


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! I had some of these scenes prewritten so this chapter was a matter of impatiently stitching them together lol. i hope yall dont mind the slow pacing and iffy plot progression, I'm writing for pleasure so its hard to remember structure and storyline sometimes.
> 
> Just a heads up, there's brief animal death (hunting for food) and some sexual content in the beginning and some vague references to past sexual trauma towards the end.
> 
> I had a lot of fun coming up with the visuals for this one, I hope you like it too!

Pat fixes his eyes on the chaparral around him as he swiftly snaps the rabbit’s neck. The familiar sensation of bones breaking under his practiced hands followed by a few shuddering jolts confirms he killed it humanely.

He binds its hind paws and slings it over his shoulder to join his two previous kills of the morning, turning to head back to the vehicles. Pat’s boots grind more aggressively than necessary into the gravel.

Pat had been quick to get up to hunt, refusing to linger by the fire with the others as they yawned and brewed some sort of tea from native-growing roots. Allegra had furrowed her brow and gave him a questioning look, mouth puckered from the bitter tea. Pat just shook his head at her as he left, restless from the dream he’d had before waking up and not wanting to discuss it.

It was all shifting colors, really, only a blurry shape of Brian’s face, mouth vaguely in the soft o-shape he’d put on so casually when pretending the other day. 

Okay, fine, it was unmistakably a rendition of the act Brian put on, further condemned by the fragments of moans and  _ “Yes, yesss, harder- oh god, Pat-”  _ echoing softly in the recesses of Pat’s mind. The image pulsates with the surge of rhythmic breaths that surround him, like someone overlaid the sounds of a heaving chest, creaking springs and beating wings.

_ “...Say whatever...” gasping lips graze over Pat’s ghostingly. _

_ “...Touch wherever…” a melting sensation blooms when a shadow of fingertips guide Pat’s hands to smudgy hips. _

_ “I know you'll handle me with care,” Dream Brian reassures him, the fuzzy colors sharpening for a moment to reveal a mischievous smile and trusting eyes before the dream-blurred edges of his body collide dazzlingly with Pat’s own. _

Awakeness had barely even registered when Pat found himself hard and involuntarily grinding down against his bedroll, alone in the back of one of the vans. He didn’t think, didn't let himself think until he was finished wrapping a hand around his length, already dripping with precome. Pat didn’t think as he came, panting hard against the pillow clenched between bared teeth.

Plodding slowly back to camp now, Pat feels a deep wash of shame crashing over him every time he thinks about the dream.  _ Fuck _ . He scrubs a hand over his face. Scolding himself, Pat gets lost in barrages of  _ what a pervert _ ,  _ of course you’ve gotta be unprofessional about this,  _ and  _ what the fuck, man _ .

He stops a few meters from camp to start skinning the rabbits, reigning himself in slightly. Okay, maybe he’s overreacting a little. Everyone’s subconscious gets a little too horny sometimes, a wet dream doesn’t speak to reality. He would never take advantage of a rescuee- Brian’s way out of his league anyways, young and brilliant and  _ beautiful _ \- and it was just a weird dream. And it will stay  _ just _ a weird dream.

Pat feels a bit more composed by the time he hangs the cleaned rabbits up by their feet and finishes wiping off blood from his forearms. He shakes the red-tinged water off his hands and goes to sit quietly in one of the bus’s woven cots. Hand brushing over where someone had tastefully carved a dick into the interior wall, Pat listens to Simone talk to home base over the radio.

She seems at ease, feet kicked up against the rim of the small claw-footed tub they had lugged into the bus (for washing, soaking injuries, and brewing Simone’s famous moonshine), her papers about a side mission cast aside. Sun breeks through the bus’s foggy windows, alighting the crew’s cozy bunks and collection of personal items. Welding torches, gun polishing kits, bootlaces and blueprints. Empty green bottles and cans of spray paint, pouches of dried prickly pears and stolen costume jewelry. Pat tucks a pouch of the candied fruit into his pocket, deciding to give it to Brian later on today.

Pat perks up when he parses out Griffin’s voice on the other end of the signal, warped and crackly.

“...nothin’ else big’s happening over here, Nicole’s got her hands full with the goats, most are coming to term and kidding right now. I get it’s like ‘a miracle of life’ but shit’s nasty, I don’t know how Sydnee stomachs it.”

“I bet Bebe’s especially excited to meet the new goats,” Simone replies idly, pulling at the leather-strapped holsters on her thighs. She unsheathes and sheathes one of the knives resting there, making a satisfying  _ shink  _ sound.

“Yeah, but Trav is bummed, he’s not allowed near them yet because the dogs follow him  _ everywhere  _ and Meg thinks they’ll be too rough with the babies.”

Pat pipes up, “Do you think the kids will try to hold another concert about it when we get home? Tambourines and everything?”

The last welcome-back ceremony put on was adorable to say the least; the kids singing too close to the microphone, pausing breathily mid song to remember what lyrics they had written while little Henry provided intermittent tambourine backing when he wasn’t distracted.

“Pat! Hey, I didn’t know you were on the line. I think Andrew’s trying to negotiate with that commune out west to get some more instruments for the kids. Who knows, maybe they’ll be here by the time you’re back.”

“Griff, we all know those instruments are mostly gonna be used by you,” Pat teases. 

A jump in the static is followed by Griffin cursing about the radio tower, flipping switches and dials on the other end.

Simone cuts in before their signal cuts out, “Anyways, you’re not missing out on much out here. Pat’s got the groundwork covered so the rest of us are posting up outside of the district. I think Clay and Jenna will be grateful to stretch their legs with this scrapping trip.”

“Alright, well we’ll be in touch soon, Dad’s probably gonna help Juice and I work on the tower signal. We’ll test it out with you guys sometime.”

Simone and Pat sign off and punch annoyedly at the radio’s buttons to cut out the empty static. “You’re sending them scrapping?” Pat asks, voice bouncing off the close metal walls.

“Yeah, I’ll spare ya the boring details of their route,” she says, waving a fan of paper plans at him, “but it seems like there’d be good junk ‘round here. It’ll be something to do while we wait for the heist.” 

Simone tucks the radio back onto its shelf and pulls a sack from the bus’s floor compartment. “Hey, you have a bit until you gotta go, right? Tell the others to help you work on these potatoes.” Her dark arched brow conveys some sort of amusement in ordering him around.

“Sim, I already worked on dinner for the day, I nabbed a couple rabbits,” Pat half-gripes.

“You seem like you need to take your mind off something for a bit. Peel,” she shoves the potato sack at him, “that’s an order, lieutenant.” Simone adds, mock-commanding, ever the one for theatrics. No wonder she and Brian had been friends.

Sighing, he smiles at her gratefully. He’s gotta give her credit, whenever Simone gives him that knowing look, Pat knows from experience that she’s pinpointed his thoughts pretty accurately. Simone ruffles his hair in response as Pat ducks out of the bus. He’s greeted with the sight of Jeff cheerfully painting some quote on an old road sign and Clayton arranging gear into a backpack, expression furrowed in thought.

Sometimes Pat gets a little lost in his own head and gets keen on penance. He knows he’s tough on himself, that he’s got a history of internalized shit and self-destruction despite only doing and feeling things that people keep assuring him are normal, universal goof-ups. Part of the human experience, Allegra poses, is to be a shit-bag sometimes. 

But hearing from home camp always helps, hell, just being with the caravan reminds him that he’s a part of something bigger. He’s helping and protecting the people that, for some reason, decided he was worth a damn.

_________

Giggles from the other doves tinker as Brian narrowly avoids one of the golden candle holders, mismatched and bearing different sizes of waxen pillars. 

The heat of each little flame is a helpful guide on how to avoid the present danger of hot wax spilling on his legs as Brian blindly shifts underneath the Duchess, view obstructed and his mouth and hands well-occupied. Manicured hands grip and maneuver Brian into whatever position she wants him in, her touch met with little resistance since his body almost instinctively becomes pliant when the Duchess is around.

Brian suspects the duchess’s fawning over him, ever-present since he can remember, was due to their shared love for the dramatics. She would slip him scraps of her favorite literature, exalting him for being  _ hers _ , and often when setting up scenes and performances they’d yes-and each other relentlessly until their combined flair devolved into a beautiful stupor. 

Hence, the array of candlesticks, standing guard around them like glinting saints as she smothers his arching form, scattered plucks of a lyre ringing from a curtained corner. 

Today she was insatiable, calling dark-haired Hecuba, Chester and Rhea in along with Brian (summoned as “Apollo” in her sing-songed glee) into one of the larger private rooms. Brian always went last, she liked to finish with him in case the others had disappointed. Syrup rations were sometimes taken away if she was left unsatisfied. Today though, she seems to have no complaints by the pleasant way she’d dismissed each dove to rest, easing their sighing bodies onto pallets of bedding nearby to watch and play music.

Her kisses are suffocating, Brian’s own lips crushed like petals under the red-lined ones claiming him. The powdery scent of her lipstick permeates his nose as she leaves stains across his body, pausing to curtly command or to cackle happily when he works his hand fervently against her core, thumbing at her clit. The Duchess' sharp gasp of pleasure is cut off by the creak of the door opening. 

One of her attendants leans against the doorjamb, scribbling down something on his notepad, “Sorry to interrupt,” he begins boredly, “one of the regulars is on the line asking to set up a meeting with you in half an hour”. 

The Duchess swears in irritation, leaning back to sweep her long hair over one shoulder. “Already? Fine, I suppose duty calls.” Brian, no longer pinned to the floor, dips to cheekily lick a quick stripe up her cunt while she’s distracted, earning an equally shocked and delighted “oh!” from the Duchess. She yanks Brian away from her thighs by his curls, laughing at the moan it produces. The Duchess tugs him upwards, gripping tighter at his hair and calls to her attendant, “Keep the client on the line, tell him ‘I’m coming’.” 

She barks a laugh at her own joke and releases Brian, her expression already morphed from endless lust into something more composed. The Duchess stands and accepts her bedizened dressing gown from Hecuba’s waiting hands, “Well, wasn’t that a lovely way to start the day. Clean up the mess you’ve made.” 

Obediently, Brian licks his hand clean of her slickness and stands to swipe at the corners of her mouth to clean up her lipstick’s smudged edges. 

“Apollo, I’ve found a translation of Lysistrata for you, I’ll send it to your room,” the Duchess calls out to them as she sweeps out of the room, “Don’t wait up darlings, I've got a lot on my plate today.”

Brian, exhausted as always from being the center of her attention, steps out of the ring of flickering candles and plops dramatically into the pillows where Chester and Rhea lay. The air is thick and Brian basks in the worn out feeling in his body, pinpointing where sweat is cooling and where wax droplets are hardening against tender skin.

“I can’t believe she’s fit to work after all that,” laughs Rhea, eyes creasing in mirth as she puts her earrings back on, silver droplets and chains finding their way into the many piercings perforating each ear’s cartilage.

“Well I can!” Hecuba replies, who’s been a dove for almost as long as Brian. She takes the lyre from Chester’s tired hands and sets it on the ground before joining them in the masses of bedding.

Brian huffs out a laugh in agreement, closing his eyes as he relaxes into the familiar post-Duchess haze, comfortable chatter rising easily from his companions. She was a force to be reckoned with, and it was always nice to face it in solidarity with other doves.

Rhea pokes at Hecuba for some apparently sensitive bit of gossip, causing the two to squabble amongst themselves. Brian, who’d phased their bickering into the background, starts slightly at the sound of Chester’s voice. 

“I thought for sure you were going to get burnt, the way she was handling you. I tried to tire her out, for what it’s worth” 

“Just a few drips of wax, no harm no foul.” She probably was doing it on purpose anyways, just to hear Brian yelp. “Although I appreciate the effort, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna roll with this scene and demand a whole wax pouring session.”

Chester only hums in response, mouth occupied with his third dose of syrup that morning. After a few minutes of quiet, Brian slips his negligee back on and twists around to inspect behind him, tsking. The girls are collapsed against each other, slipping into something near slumber, their purple-stained lips lightly snoring. Chester seems to be off in his own world. Brian stretches and gets up, finding himself wishing he had Pat’s lighter with him.

Brian sets about methodically snuffing the candles about the room, basking in the peacefulness of the action. He leaves the last one alight and searches the entertainment room for a joint. His face is lowered over the candlestick, downcast eyelashes fluttering at the heat, lighting the joint on the flame when Jonah opens the door. Brian leans back with a slow drag, face tilted up prettily with practiced ease.

“Did you come to carry these sleeping beauties back to their rooms?” he asks through a puff of smoke.

Jonah spares a glance at the somewhat-conscious doves as he comes over to take a pull from the joint.

“I came to fetch you, some tattooed desert-head came a-calling,” he says gruffly, handing it back.

Brian flicks off the ashes and smiles widely. He plays along, “Already? Thought that old hound-dog has had enough of me.”

Jonah scoffs. “Pat’s practically bewitched. Don’t know what you did to put that poor man in such a state.”

A drowsy burble of laughter drifts up from the other doves. 

“I have some idea of what Apollo did,” Rhea teases, wriggling her hips suggestively.

Brian crawls over to the palette and perches the joint in Hecuba’s mouth. Her eyes drift open and smiles in slow gratitude before sucking in the smoke.

Plucking the joint from her limp hands, Brian sighs dramatically and stands, “Well, I guess I won’t keep him waiting. I don’t plan on breaking any hearts today.”

_________

The new room Pat is brought into this evening is most likely an actual entertainment room; what it lacks in crowded bunks and jewelry-ridden dressing tables it makes up in, well, space. A large mattress sits in the center of the room, taking up most of the floor. It’s the only place to sit, so Pat settles into the plush covers, failing to remember when he’d last slept on an actual bed. 

It really is nicely decorated, the walls are festooned with wide teal ribbons, and there’s still no windows but on one wall hangs a giant, bronze-rimmed mirror. Against the wall opposite of the mirror is some sort of wash-basin, peach porcelain shaped like an open clam shell and almost big enough to be a bath.

Pat sets the pouch of prickly pears he’d brought aside and relaxes into the bed, obstinately not thinking of how many people have been in it. Appreciating the soft give of the mattress, Pat fights back the temptation of a nap until cheerful voices drift closer to his room and the door swings open, revealing Brian and Jonah.

He props himself up on his elbows and gives a little salute to the larger man in hello, and then takes in the smaller figure leaning against the doorframe, nearly choking. Brian’s gorgeously debauched-looking, like a socialite whose expensive night on the town ended extremely well. His curls are wild, as if hands had pulled at tufts of hair, and he’s barely covered by a champagne silk negligee. A joint perches between his raspberry-painted lips, which are smeared messily and slightly mismatch the color of the kiss marks scattered over the rest of his body, like the darker rouge was blended into an originally pink color using someone else’s mouth.

“Hey there, stranger! Isn’t this room nice? They finally had a good one open for booking.” Brian blows out some smoke, appearing uncharacteristically shy when Pat’s gaze stays fixed on him. Jonah looms over his shoulder, expression stoic as ever. 

Brian hands the joint back easily to Jonah, not even looking behind him as the other automatically reaches to receive it, “I, uh, didn’t get a chance to change after seeing to the Duchess with a coupla other doves, is that fine?”

He looks fucked out because he was just fucking. The Duchess. And however many others. The realization shouldn’t be so short-circuiting, this is a brothel for god’s sake, but Pat’s brain can only take so much sex-ruined Brian imagery in one day. This kid’s going to kill him.

Pat answers, “No, I don’t mind at all, it’s whatever you want,” at the same time Brian offers “Jonah brought some stuff from my room, I can change if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Really,” Pat insists, proud at how casual his voice comes out, “It’s not a big deal”. 

Brian shrugs and turns to Jonah, making grabby hands for something. A small smile breaks over Jonah’s face as he procures a jar of some sort of paste from the bundle of clothes under his arm, voice soft as he hands it off, “Is this the right one? You’ve got so many hair products in there I wasn’t sure.”

Brian taps at the glass jar, “This is it, Jo, thanks so much!” patting Jonah’s arm affectionately, he moves to sit down, the mattress dipping under Brian’s weight. Jonah swings the door shut behind him, “No problem, I’ll see ya later.”

“What is that?” Pat asks distractedly, focusing more on the droplets he’d just noticed spattered down Brian’s flushed chest and legs, hoping to god they’re not what he thinks they are. The drips are damningly creamy white, nearly the same shade of Brian’s earrings, natural freshwater pearls dangling prettily below each lobe.

“I got my hands on some henna dye, it’s  _ really _ hard to come by and it is a hot commodity around here. Laura’s done it to me once.” Pat’s only half-listening but excitement is apparent in Brian’s voice. 

“You,” Brian pokes at Pat’s chest, “are going to help me dye my hair!”

With the other so close, finger still pressed against his chest, Pat can see Brian follow his own line of sight to the mystery drips. 

A quiet “oh,” of realization slips out before a wicked expression dawns on Brian’s face. “Pat, did you really think-”

He flushes defensively, “Brian, your whole-” Pat gestures vaguely at the other, “ _ -situation _ looks pretty fucked right now, what am I supposed to think?”

Brian flops backwards on the mattress laughing, “You  _ said _ I didn’t need to change, if you think I look a mess then why’d you-”

Pat sputters, “You look fine! That’s the problem, you look good no matter what you wear or do-”

The wicked look is back, “So, you think I look good absolutely  _ covered _ in…” the glossy silk of Brian’s dress has ridden up and he scrapes at a spatter revealed on his thigh, holding his hand up to show Pat, “candle wax?”

Pat collapses defeatedly next to Brian, heaving a long-suffering sigh. This kid’s  _ trying _ to kill him. 

“I can feel my hair turning grey.”

“Ooh, silver fox.”

“You’re getting lipstick stains all over the covers.”

“Fuck!”

They situate themselves in front of the huge mirror, Brian mixing the contents of the jar, Pat sitting behind him brushing through the tangles of golden hair with a fine toothed comb produced from a supply cabinet in the wall. Pat sends a silent thanks to whoever’s out there for letting him touch Brian’s soft hair. Brian is distractingly close, smelling like dulled perfume, sex and singed wicks.

Armed with a couple towels and gloves from the cabinet, Brian instructs Pat on how to apply the paste to sections of his hair, talking into the mirror while he does his bangs as an example.

Pat snaps on a pair of gloves and gets to work in the friendly quiet that falls between them, trying not to pull too hard at Brian’s hair. Pat casts glances at the mirror every now and then to check the other’s expression. His eyes have drifted shut, not seeming to mind having his hair tended to. 

By the time Pat gets halfway down Brian’s head (kid’s got a lot of hair), Brian pipes up again. “I talked to a VIC-” holding up a finger to quell Pat’s puzzlement, “- _ very _ important client, since you last visited.”

“Oh?”

“His name’s Brennan.”

Pat pauses, hand frozen mid-scoop in the jar. “You mean, like, the guy that runs half the district?”

“Mhm. He’s a regular of mine, despite the beef between him and the Duke over the years. Stellar fuck and something close to an old friend. Thugs are usually loose-lipped around prostitutes, because what could we possibly do to harm them? Plus, if you’re blowing their minds, they’ll really tell you anything.”

It makes sense that brothels would be an information gold mind with all the prestigious clientele passing through. Pat can surely see it happening, and Brian is dangerously clever. A pretty young thing with a natural knack for acting, if he wanted he could get whatever he wanted out of big-time clients. 

But jesus, Brennan? After casing the area, Karen had made a point to inform the caravan crew of how much influence the man held in parts of the region.

“Damn. But he’s gotta be somewhat sensible to have so much power around here, do you think he really doesn’t suspect you as a threat?” Pat asks warily.

Brian meets his eyes thoughtfully in the mirror, “I honestly think he’s been hoping I’ll get fed up one of these days and take down the Duke for him. Brennan spills a lot of information and tries to pit me against the Duke. Says I’m too smart to be kept here, that the Duke’s blind to not notice me as a potential troublemaker.”

Pat nods, applying more henna paste to the underside of a curl, “Well, what did he tell you?”  
“The Duke was caught trying to sell tons of weed on Brennan’s turf. I was right,” Brian adds proudly, “I totally called it, the Duke wants to start an actual drug trade network beyond the brothel.”

“So all the weird activity was him trying to ship out?”

“Yeah! It comes off strange because god, he decided to start production before establishing reliable routes, and he  _ sucks _ at it. Most of this district is already under someone else’s thumb so he’s taking forever to find somewhere to actually trade. The other two parts of the district’s triumvirate got pissed and chased him out.”

Pat grins, “So you mean to tell me that while the Duke’s scrambling to build his business away from home, the brothel’s still growing buckets and buckets of weed that have nowhere to ship?”

Brian’s face beams back in the mirror, “Why yes, Pat, that is the very blessing we’ve been given. Crops intended for entire blocks of districts.”

_________

It’s when Pat curiously winds a finger into the hair at Brian’s nape, asking if the henna’s set enough that Brian springs away before he makes an embarrassing noise. It felt way too good to have Pat mess with his hair and he  _ cannot  _ handle anymore hair-pulling.

He turns from Pat’s startled expression and chirps, “Yep! Time for a rinse.”

Perching on the cold porcelain of the shell-shaped basin, he waits patiently as Pat tidies up the henna mess, appreciating the way his shoulders flex under his tight black tank. Is it wrong to admit how much Brian likes watching the other tend to him, almost thoughtless in the way he goes from step to step unprompted? There’s this concentrated air about Pat, body moving with controlled deliberation, face set attentively- Pat’s treating each task with importance, like he’s diligently organizing equipment instead of cleaning up hair supplies.

Pat peels the dirtied gloves off and Brian could wax poetry about the artful sinews in the man’s hands, the bulge of veins tracing the backs of his hands. In his admiration, Brian quietly snickers when he glimpses a tattoo he hadn’t noticed before along the edge of Pat’s left palm. “WELL, SHIT!” is lettered on the meat of his hand, the shaky hand-written quality suggests someone other than Pat, who seems to work in crisp dark lines, had stick-n-poked it drunkenly.

Pat finally turns back, presenting Brian with the towels then stops in a slight double take, flicking his gaze over and back, fixing him with  _ that _ look again. When his eyes get intense with focus and Brian has to try not to squirm under the attention.

“What?”  
“...Nothing, you uh, just remind me of... these elaborate altars we had back at the church.”

Brian regards himself in the mirror behind Pat and sees the way he’s perfectly centered in front of the shell, legs crossed and hands braced at both sides of him. Brian’s gotta say, altar offering is a good look on him. 

“The church?” Brian turns back, cocking his head.

Pat grimaces, like he hadn’t meant to mention it, “I’ll tell you about it some other time- It’s not really a fun story to get into...” voice edging out as he glances away again.

Sensing the other’s desire for a topic change, Brian barrels on to a peacock act. “Well, you should’ve seen the setup I had earlier today- dozens of candles everywhere- can you imagine an array of ‘em flickering around me? Now  _ that _ would be an altar,” he sweeps a hand towards his feet, eyes fixed on himself in the mirror.

Arcing his arms in the air, Brian reclines gracefully in the bowl of the clam shell. Switching rapidly from pose to dramatic pose, he intones, “C’mon Pat, tell me which angles are workin’ here, I’m going for a Birth of Venus sort of look.” 

Pat’s discomfort is already gone, replaced by a bemused arched brow as he lopes over.

“The shell is my dais,” Brian trills, freezing in a final pose, peering at Pat with half-lidded eyes.

The man shakes his head fondly and scoops Brian from his seat in the basin with an unfair amount of ease. 

“Alrighty Aphrodite, settle down. Let’s get this out of your hair.”

After a couple rinses and a lot of complaining over the water temperature, Brian finds himself in between Pat’s knees again, the other draping a towel around his neck to stop rivulets from running down his spine below the low-scooped back of his dress. Brian is swiping back the strands plastered to his forehead when his field of view goes white, blocked by a towel being dropped over his head. Large hands pull it away from Brian’s eyes and begin drying his hair carefully. It’s nice. Too nice.

“You really don’t have to do that,” Brian says quietly.

“Well, you told me to help you, I’m not gonna half-ass it,” Pat responds absently, as if  _ of course  _ he has to.

Brian blinks, “Yeah, I suppose I did wrangle you into doing this, I didn’t even ask what you wanted to do,” his voice sounding apologetic.

Pat’s hands keep working methodically, “No, I’m happy to help. It’s not everyday I get to play hairstylist.”

“Weelll,” drawing out the word, “What would you like in return for such a thorough dye job?” Brian prods.

Pat goes quiet for a moment, thinking as he works his fingers to squeeze the water out. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

Brian tenses at such an ominous question, “Jeez, you’re gonna give me a panic attack over here. Shoot, put me out of my misery.”

“You don’t have to answer, it’s kind of a stupid thing to ask,” Pat begins uncertainly, then interrupts himself, “And I know I dodged a personal question just now, but I can’t help but wonder with this morning’s aftermath…” he pauses, like he’s trying to figure out the best way to fit the words together.

“Do you… do you like it? Having to have sex?”

Brian wasn’t exactly expecting that, and while it’s not an unfamiliar discussion with Jonah and Laura he can feel his body tighten up in defense anyways. 

Pat must notice the tension, he’s practically pressed up against Brian’s back, “Hey, it’s alright, forget I asked. That was crossing a line, I gotta learn to mind my own fuckin’ business…” and Brian can’t stand the way Pat’s face crumples in regret behind him, like he’s beating himself up on the inside. Brian shakes his head quickly, “No, I don’t mind talking about it. S’kinda the elephant in the room, you’re breaking us out of this life, after all.”

He exhales deeply after a brief battle with himself, deciding how much he wants to reveal to Pat, who’s holding his breath like Brian’s gonna change his mind and get angry at him for asking. Fuck it.

“ If you want my honest answer, Pat, I do. It kinda sounds awful, but sometimes I even love it. I mean, it's all I’ve ever known for a long, long time- but it can be really nice. Just...to feel. Just to have that expected of me, to be able to give and receive pleasure. It’s hard when Laura and Jonah get so worked up about it. I can’t help but to love fucking- I’d be truly miserable if I didn’t like it at least  _ sometimes _ \- so it usually works out well.”

He keeps his eyes on the floor, not wanting to see Pat’s reaction, and continues somewhat lightly, “But y’know, not everyone is nice to play with, and that's where it gets messy. If a client gets too rough, yeah, it sucks but I _chose_ to be like this, I’m _literally_ a slut so why should I feel weird when they treat me like one? Because, if I enjoy being used, if I’m almost always happy to play the part, then what gives me the right to pick and choose when and how I like it?”

The silence that falls when Brian stops talking is terrifying, and all he can do is keep staring resolutely at the floor in front of him. He had long accepted this line of thinking but Brian knows that it’s not something he should say out loud to people who haven’t lived as a dove.

Pat’s voice is firm when he finally speaks, “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, I know I don’t know you or what it’s like to be you very well-” he sighs and tucks the towel around Brian’s hair like a headdress.

“-But you’re not a slut, in like, a bad way,” Pat sounds like he’s scowling as he awkwardly repeats the wording, and bless him for not realizing that sort of shit’s just part of Brian’s daily lexicon, “You liking what you do doesn’t mean you deserve what happens sometimes. It’s complicated, you say you chose this but you really didn’t, you were a kid that was  _ sold  _ to this place-

“I  _ chose _ to do this early so Laura didn’t have to, I  _ asked _ the Duchess to let me start working, I begged her to- to break me in,” Brian cuts in, ignoring the way his voice wobbles in frustration, hands tightening around his thighs. He needs Pat to understand that he brought this on himself, that he’s the reason Laura’s so damn guilty all the time and he’s the reason the Duke and Duchess’s claws got stuck in him in the first place.

“-but you were a  _ kid. _ It wasn’t a choice you should’ve had to make, and you didn’t have a lot of options in the first place. It’s complicated, so it makes sense that you have complicated feelings. I don’t think you’re wrong to enjoy it now- god, you deserve to enjoy things whenever you can- but that doesn’t take away the fact that you’re allowed to agree or disagree with what people want from  _ your _ body.”

When he finally meets Pat’s steady gaze in the mirror, there’s no trace of judgement or pity. Relief courses through Brian, of all the reactions he was bracing himself for, this wasn’t one of them. Pat understands, for the most part, and he’s still here, gently swathing Brian’s hair and talking to Brian like he cares. It’s enough to soothe Brian’s frazzled nerves and stirrings of doubt into something more tender.

_________

It’s much too early to sleep, probably just edging from afternoon to evening, but Brian must be tired because he passes out nearly as soon as they move from the floor to sit in bed. The kid seems smaller in his sleep, stretched over the towels Pat laid out to protect the bedding, more delicate with all of his pep and bravado put to rest. Watching Brian sleep feels strange- Pat already knows he’s a total creep, okay- but it really is difficult to take his eyes off of the other no matter the situation. His hair looks good, warmly tinted tawny, darkened by the lingering dampness. Brian had praised as much when he messed with it in the mirror, joking that Pat should consider a career in cosmetics instead of crime.

Pat has to admire Brian’s spirit; he faces things with such white-hot determination, founded in both optimism and realism. Brian’s got so much fight in him, the way he uses his words, his wit, his  _ will- _ it’s got to be overwhelming to have a head filled with so many complicated thoughts, let alone to be able to sharpen them into articulate coherency. 

The only fight Pat’s got in him is physical, the self-preserving reflex to swing first and swing  _ hard _ .

The vibrant stamps of lipstick on Brian have only smeared slightly, stirring Pat’s memories of earlier, how the rabbit blood on his hands left rusty fingerprints wherever he touched. Pat looks down at his hands, then barely hovers a thumb over the red smudge on Brian’s collarbone, something disquieting rolling through his stomach as Pat imagines it imprinting the other’s skin with blood. Unsettled, he pulls his hand back sharply and rolls away, putting as much space between them possible without falling off the mattress. 

Forcing himself to take a breath, he shakes the intrusive image from his head. No matter how much Brian insists how he can handle himself and that he trusts Pat, it’s going to take a while to convince Pat’s brain that he’s good enough for this. That Pat isn’t too world-weary and bloodstained to have someone like Brian around, who’s suffered more than enough at the hands of selfish old wretches like Pat.

It’s much too early to sleep, but Pat tries anyway as he calms himself down, lingering on the time they spent today as proof that things weren’t as bad as his subconscious made it out to be. Brian had allowed Pat to do his hair, felt he could tell Pat personal things, leaned into his touch, unafraid. 

The whole experience was surreal, meticulously combing and parting, tipping the other’s head into the basin of water, gingerly toweling him dry. Something in the balance of intimacy and discipline felt close to performing holy rites. That was familiar to him, and if he was going to agonize over every interaction, Pat could try to liken this to worship instead of corruption.

With his thoughts steadied once more, it’s an easy thing to give into slumber when laid in a soft bed, listening to the gentle snores rising from Brian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof, we gotta some Issues on both sides but they're working through it and talking about it! Brian's got some conflicting feelings about the past and present and I'm hoping i did a discussion, albeit a short one, relating to my experience with hypersexualization as a coping mechanism justice! and pat, i know anxiety's rough but it was just a rabbit ok dont worry so much its the post-apocalypse shit happens
> 
> also yes brian's a theater kid so of course he's a lil. dramatic but lets not forget simone's own affair with theater and literature
> 
> im a sucker for tender scenes and im making up for the shitty things in their pasts with a plentitude of tenderness.
> 
> also im not gonna pretend like i know how radios work i havent done research yet ok.
> 
> thank you so much for reading and please leave a comment if you liked it! I love to hear what yall enjoyed :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter than the others b/c I broke things up into multiple chapters for pacing reasons, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. The dance scene is heavily inspired by these videos, I just love everything about em  
https://youtu.be/tJyNTEyJPDQ?t=40  
https://youtu.be/a4PQHpBhekE  
https://youtu.be/qLHAkwZrg48

Progress is slow. Pat knows he said he didn’t mind, that he enjoyed this weird purgatory where it felt like he had all the time in the world to be with Brian but.

It's been a long time since the others had a mission this slow paced. Simone was right to send a group scrapping, but still. Pat can sense the restlessness. It makes his skin itch, like he should be restless too, like peacefulness is too far and few in between conflict to be true.

And it's hard to feel like he has all the time in the world when Pat catches glimpses of the other parts of Brian's life. Some of them are glorious and intoxicating- a recent visit during a show night was especially surreal, the memory of it quickens his heartbeat to match the bone-rattling thunk of the bass and burns too bright colors into the back of his eyes. The simultaneous vividness and blurriness should tell Pat he got a little carried away with seemingly endless drinks and joints.

He remembers Brian, shining and breathtaking onstage, some feral, untamed side of him on display. The other had grinned wildly at Pat, teetering on thigh-high heels, their teal blue contrasting the splash of opal-like colors in the rest of his outfit. Ripped fishnets stretch over a thong, a loose-cropped shirt fluttering just above the start of Brian’s rib cage. _ Jesus _ . Pat downs the rest of whatever he was drinking. In his stupor, alcohol spilled out from where the bowl meets the sides of his mouth and Brian leaned over to swipe a finger across and pop it into his mouth, smirking. _ Jesus fucking Christ. _

There were other dancers there too, Pat thinks, taking turns leaping between the beams of light to perform. He remembers having to close his eyes at one point, overloaded by a burst of strobe lights that cast their figures in scary, contorted movements. Ignoring the flashing behind his eyelids, Pat loses himself in the music- a weird techno mix that sounded crystalline and heavy at the same time, punctuated with stuttering clips of animalistic sounds. He thinks that the others would’ve been jealous if they knew of tonight, this sort of party seemed more their scene than his. Even so, Pat was oddly entranced, letting himself roll with the night, head swirling hazily with visions and pleasantly warmed from drinking. 

Flashes of Brian dancing stick in Pat’s mind- him moving in strong, snappy movements, swirling and twisting his wrists, framing hands around his face, dropping rolling hips low, shifting the momentum from one move to the next in a whiplash transformation. Brian stomp-struts to the beat, circling another dancer, aggressively pushing and pulling movements from each other like a strange bird mating ritual. It looked like nothing Pat’s seen before. It looked _ powerful _ . It looked _ addicting, _judging by the pure glee that occasionally broke through Brian’s sultry expression. He fixed his elated gaze on Pat, eyes lined strikingly with dark pigment, and it felt like that point of connection alone had allowed Brian’s energy pulse through Pat’s own veins.

Looking back, Pat wishes he’d stayed a little more sober so he could better capture in his mind’s eye the raw power and happiness Brian radiated.

He hadn’t seen Brian since that night, and Pat eventually gets tired of the restlessness back at camp, deciding to drop by the brothel a day early in his boredom. The contrast is less jarring this time around, the sleepy quiet of the day versus the opulent chaos of the night.

When Pat finds the front guard asleep again, he signs himself in unthinkingly. He makes his way down the halls, foolishly occupied with just being able to see Brian again. He finds Brian laid out on the couch in just an oversized white shirt, reeking of wine. Pat is immediately struck with the feeling that he shouldn’t be here.

The pit in his stomach widens when Brian drunkenly peers over at Pat, body unguarded but not trustingly, just _ limp _and there’s no recognition in Brian’s eyes. Every little movement is heavy and it’s clear he’s black-out drunk, but despite this, Pat watches Brian struggle towards enough clarity to curve his spine and bite his lips prettily. 

His voice is _ rough, _ rasping at the ends, “Already back for more?” Brian bats his eyes somewhat blearily and snuffles out a laugh. “If you want another round, you better pay the extra fee. Dunno how much I can move.” 

Pat abruptly ducks out from the doorframe he’d been hovering in and strides straight out of the corridor. He’s sick with guilt, like he’d intruded on something Brian didn’t want him to see. Pat crosses his name out from the guestbook and leaves a tip on the counter, resolving to never barge into Brian’s room like that again.

The next time Pat shows up for his scheduled session, Brian seems as peppy as usual. He doesn’t remember. God. Pat tries not to let his expression flicker when he greets the kid, a reasonably amount of stiffness in his body when Brian pulls him into a hug. Pat can't tell if he’s relieved or nauseated by Brian's obliviousness. It feels wrong to have this knowledge, to know this about Brian without him knowing but Pat would rather die before telling him. It's just. Not something he should bring up.

Brian’s leading him down a new hall today, chirping something about a public room that’s set up real pretty for courting visitors today. Pat’s trying to listen, he really is, but this feeling of imbalance is distracting. Brian’s whole life is on display for Pat and he hasn’t shared anything meaningful about himself in return. Maybe he should bite the bullet and get it over with. It's not all that bad, compared to the shit Brian's been through. The vulnerability that's inherent in sharing is what makes Pat reluctant. Lost in thought, he nearly runs into Brian’s back when the other abruptly stops.

“Oh, Laura! Pat, you can finally meet my sister!” Brian rocks back on his feet to look at Pat, eager face betraying that this meeting obviously means a lot to him.

Sure enough, there stands the same woman from that picture he’d seen what seems like ages ago. “Hello,” she greets him warmly, same owlish eyes creasing as she smiles. Laura’s expression turns teasing, “I’ve heard a lot about you. I can’t wait to talk more.” 

Pat's torn between playing it cool, he's undercover after all, or trying his darnedest to be friendly and make a good impression on Laura. The lilting tone of her voice makes Pat want to turn questioningly to Brian, who nervously pushes on before Pat can edge a word in, and gestures to the white-haired girl behind Laura. “And that’s Rowan, Laura’s newest devotee."

Laura fills the silence when Rowan just eyes Pat scrutinizingly, “We were just bringing the last few serving platters over-”

The clacking of heels startle the girls before Laura can finish, their expressions becoming neutral without even glancing behind them.

The Duchess stalks her way over, the vials around her neck and ornaments in her hair clinking loudly with each step. “Apollo, you can chitchat later. Your client surely doesn’t want to socialize with the staff, you forget that you’re hosting,” she tuts, grazing a hand across Brian’s jaw as she sweeps by the cluster of people, tilting his face towards Pat with the motion.

Continuing down the hall, the Duchess calls sharply behind her, “Artemis, Rowan. Come along, room 2B needs a scrub.”

Laura flashes an apologetic smile at Pat as she paces after the Duchess. Rowan just blinks at Brian and then Pat, before turning to follow Laura. Brian worries his bottom lip and just tilts his head down the hall, leading Pat away.

The spacious room Brian brings them to is nearly empty, with only a few client-dove couples scattered about, but there are giant bowls of fruit perched atop the pedestals next to each low couch. Brian takes Pat by the hand to a booth in the corner. “Score!” he excitedly whispers at the sight of the spread.

They settle in next to each other, Brian tossing one end of a diaphanous orange scarf over his shoulder as he explains lowly, “Doves aren’t allowed to eat fresh produce, expensive stuff like that’s saved for you guys.”

A flash of anger passes over Pat, but he has a feeling there’s more to what Brian’s saying by the way his voice trails off. “Unless?” Pat prompts.

“_ Unless _a client asks us to eat with them.”

Pat laughs, “Oh, I see, you’re just using me for lunch,” he reaches to tilt the bowl towards them.

“Yessiree, I've been found out,” Brian smiles as Pat hands him a tangerine. All thought of talking about his Tragic Backstory (capitalized or whatever) leaves Pat as he watches the other happily dig shiny little nails into the fruit’s flesh. He’ll tell him some other day, it doesn't matter all that much.

Brian’s nimble hands pry the sections apart gently but juice sprays out from a puncture in the soft skin. The spray startles laughter from Pat as Brian jolts the fruit away from his face. Brian grumbles goodnaturedly something about having to share as he hands over half of the tangerine. Pat stubbornly ignores the way the intimacy of the action grips his heart. 

They split a few more fruits peacefully, bits of conversation filling in the quiet every now and then, Brian rambling about the “vogue” performance from the other night, Pat cutting in with questions and compliments. Now Pat knows he was silly to think he'd lost the moments of Brian's thrilled power to too much whiskey, because really he gets to witness that look in Brian's eyes every time Pat visits.

Brian leans close and talks around the last tangerine slice in his mouth, “Before I forget, I should tell you some more info about the “staff”, as the Duchess calls them.” Scraping under his nails for remnants of fruit peel, “Basically Laura and I set up a loose system a long time ago for doves that were too young or couldn’t handle sex work. More Laura than me, I just convinced the Duke and Duchess to let her organize it.” 

As if summoned, the Duchess reappears at the mouth of the room with some business partner. Her voice fills the room boomingly- she’s thankfully deep in conversation, settling on a couch a good ways away, but Brian looks slightly unsettled. 

Brian melts into a fake smile and hisses between his teeth, “We can’t leave without seeming suspicious. I’m going to hit on you now, please don’t freak out.”

Pat quietly protests, “Hey, I don’t freak out-” but he falls silent when Brian twists a hand into his collar and pulls him closer. 

“I need you to play along and respond like I’m doing my job, okay?”

Pat nods, a little more insistent than necessary and lets himself relax into Brian’s touch, placing a hand on his waist for good measure. Brian seems pleased by Pat’s participation.

Smoothing his hands up and down Pat’s chest, Brian continues, “Most of the kids are sent to work serving and cleaning and cooking, but some are paired with older doves who have experience with Duke’s side of things.” 

Okay, the Duchess definitely just glanced over at them curiously. Pat smooths his hands down and _ grabs _, gathering Brian into his lap. Brian lets out a flirty giggle, “That’s good, very good,” he praises next to Pat’s ear, the heavy pendants of Brian’s necklaces dragging across his chest. Brian instructs, “Pull my hair now.” The other is just encouraging Pat’s acting, but it raises goosebumps on his skin anyways. Brian sighs happily as fingers slide through his hair,

“These younger doves are taught how to farm and pick and package the weed- a couple help out with the codeine stuff too. None of 'em usually mingle with performing doves though, they shack up in a different wing of the brothel. I need more time to get info from ‘em, uh, they’re rarely… _ lucid _,” Brian’s voice falters, and Pat struggles to keep his expression pleasant. It’s hard to not focus on how many doves are tucked away here, hooked on codeine.

“Hey,” Brian interrupts, noticing the break in Pat’s act, “Gimme a berry real quick.”

Pat obliges, barely having grabbed a strawberry from the pedestal before Brian gets _ very _ close. His pink mouth opens and _ fuck _, he dips forward, sinking down over the berry, sparing no erotics. Brian pins him with direct eye contact as he bites, humming while the juices drip down Pat’s fingers. Pat’s breathing has gone shallow, completely and utterly turned on as Brian swallows and flicks a wet tongue over where Pat’s thumb and forefinger hold the leafy stem.

The cat-like grin that spreads across Brian’s face doesn’t seem like part of an act any more. Holy shit. 

Brian’s entirely too pleased with himself when he whispers nonchalantly, “Anyways, I can get a pretty good idea of what the crop’s schedule is after I get Rowan to chat with some of the harvesters. We gotta time things to maximize how much weed has been harvested and packaged up.”

Pat just nods, dumbstruck, biting his lip as Brian pulls away. 

“_Bravo_, Patrick, great performance,” Brian grins as he covers Pat’s hand with his own, bringing attention to where it grips vice-like around Brian's thigh. Pat can’t help the disbelieving laugh that murmurs out of him.

Giggling eagerly like they were heading to bed, Brian tugs Pat hurriedly from the couch and out of the room. He doesn’t miss the approving look the Duchess sends Brian on their way out.

“Where are we going?” Pat asks as they head down the hall, arousal and adrenaline becoming indecipherable now. 

“I have somethin’ to show you. I figured out where they keep the largest crops.”

They whip past Jonah, who looks understandably confused, and turn around yet another bend in the corridor. This place is like a maze.

“Why are we running?” 

“I dunno, Pat, it just feels right!” Brian laughs breathlessly. 

They arrive at a small courtyard, “The Hypaethral” says Brian while Pat takes in the sun spilling across the sandstone floor and the rippling pond that fills the majority of the plaza. He can barely think as Brian turns to face him, back to the water as he pulls Pat closer to the edge. 

“What did you want to show-” Pat manages before Brian just looks at him with a gleam of mischief. He steps backwards in a mock wobble and _ tugs _ with the full weight of his body, sending the two of them toppling into the water.

Brian pulls them down to the bottom of the pond, squeezing Pat’s hand until he opens his eyes in the murky water. With his hair and clothes floating serenely, Brian looks like one of those nymphs from his books, all gossamery and mythical. The other raises an eyebrow when Pat just stares, then points downwards, directing Pat’s sight to the glass panes on the floor. Wait. Glass panes on the floor of a pond?

Pat swims further down and peers in, eyes widening with realization when he sees a room through the windowed floor, and rows of green sprouting under the light that has filtered through the water.

Brian tugs him back up to break through the surface, Pat heaving in gasps of air. 

“You are so extra.” Pat sputters, sweeping the curtain of wet hair from his face.

“I thought my discovery deserved a grand reveal,” Brian replies. “I did get a bit carried away,” he concedes, blinking water from his eyes. The droplets stick his lashes together, making them dark and spiky. 

“But was it not breath-taking?” Brian beams.

Heart still thumping and absolutely bewildered by this hurricane of a person, Pat just sinks back into the water, dramatically blowing out bubbles to drown out Brian’s laughter.

____

“You’re reading into it too much, no one’s gonna notice.”

They’ve already escalated this to a fight that can’t be walked back down to sharp-tongued teasing and amenable compromises. Jonah hovers around Brian as he huffily pretends to be busy re-arranging his costume rack.

“Could you at least stand to be less obvious around the others?”

_ Obvious _? Brian bristles at being so utterly caught.

“Whatever, everyone here knows my acting is a part of the package for clients.” He aggressively clacks the clothes hangers apart, then together again. “Some like it bratty, some like it docile, some just want someone to tell them they love them, even if they’re paying for it.” 

Brian tugs out a moth-chewed robe, “The other doves have no clue he’s any different from the rest.” He tosses it behind him, resolutely not laughing at how it lands on Jonah’s face. 

“I don’t care what you do Brian, but at least try to be more subtle about how you feel about Pat, eventually they’ll notice its not an act, that he’s not just some guy you’re fucking.” The slight emphasis Jonah puts on _ fucking _ stings, especially when Brian hasn’t even done the deed.

Heat prickles down his back. It’s hard enough to know he’s complicating their only chance of escape because he’s a stupid, naive romantic- but to know that everyone will be able to tell- Hot embarrassment fuels an ugly part of him that wants to hit where it hurts, like a cornered animal.

Brian whips around to face Jonah, his voice going cruelly cynical.

“Ha! You’ve never complained about me _ slutting it up _ before. What’s one more guy you have to share your piece of ass with?”

Something in Brian knows this is far from the truth, that sex was a casual yet rarely occurring thing in their friendship and that Jonah just likes to worry about him. 

Jonah’s face goes slack, then goes through a jumble of anger and disbelief before settling on a stern glare. 

But, god, it feels good to bare his teeth right back and find them sinking into something.

The other flexes his hands, unballing them from tight fists at his sides. 

“Don’t be a dick.” Jonah grits out. “You know I don’t care about any of that. You know I’d still be here if you never slept with me again- it doesn’t fucking matter! None of the sex matters. You know I-” something goes tight in Jonah’s chest, and when he swallows it his angry tone seems to fizzle out,

“We’ll always be close friends. You know I want you to be happy with whoever you want. But you know that when the Duke sees you, he’s going to notice something’s up, and he’s going to get jealous. And you know that I’m right to be afraid of that happening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was sort of a blur of the moments passing between Pat and Brian, focusing in on a few shining or prominent ones. I converted my Brian playlist I shared a while ago to a youtube one for people who don't have Spotify, and if y'all are interested I have my patbri playlist for this fic up on Spotify rn, ill get it on youtube soon. I love these songs and their lyrics, I highly recommend!  
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWqvp4zMC0rNA0sUSpVdXHr3TgMWTMbDS  
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1aWcApFHQjpBacWFLTyuNe?si=FKF9XtTDSXicHj4ujY8gLA
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it! let me know what you think in the comments :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! Heads up this chapter's got some references to sexual trauma, internalized slut shaming, panic attacks, trauma with organized religion, abuse and homophobia (also the f slur if that's a trigger). Sorry I know it's a lot of bad stuff at once but it's not explicitly described and I tried to make it as bittersweet as possible. I really hope you enjoy, this chapter took a while to get to where I wanted it and I'm proud of the way it came out!

Pat really needs to watch his back on the next caravan mish. Like, seriously be prepared to lose a finger or get another ugly, jagged scar and have to re-ink over the ridged skin and it’ll hurt like a motherfucker but god, Pat hates to see his work messed up.

Regardless, Pat’s unnerved, waiting for the blow to land sometime in the future, because he’s sure as hell using up all of his good karma every second he spends with Brian. Ever since the day Brian had flung the two of them into a pond, Pat’s made a point to keep Brian company more frequently, now regularly requesting the brothel’s meal options. The jut of Brian’s ribs was a perturbing reminder of doves’ malnutrition and he always looks grateful for the extra food.

The kid in question is fidgeting slightly, shoulder against Pat’s chest, breaking him momentarily from his thoughts. The lines between the way they act in public versus private are blurring together with each visit, the excuse to touch and flirt has extended to beyond closed doors. It’s just practice, obviously, the only way Brian’s letting this go on is so Pat gets used to the whole act. With the way Brian touches so freely, Pat is constantly reminded of how unlike him it is to do the same. 

If practice gets Pat to stop startling embarrassingly with each movement, then he’ll take it, agonizing feelings and all. 

Brian somehow decided to take a break from packing up the bag Pat brought today by parking himself in Pat’s lap. And after Brian broke out an ornate glass-blown pipe given to him by a client, Pat thinks the two of them are baked well past the point of productivity.

Of course, Pat didn’t have it in him anyways to regroup, to sternly get the kid back on track and go over intel again while they were at it. Either Pat’s a lazy fuck or he’s going soft, because he’d simply sighed and suggested Brian should bring the pipe with him when they ditch this place- despite the near arrogant look to the glass piece, it _ did _ have a smooth pull.

Who was Pat to ruin Brian’s high spirits (hah) just to pack a measly duffel? The other had smiled slow and sweet when he settled against Pat, eyes closed blissfully behind the filaments draping elaborately over his face, with little turquoise stones dangling from the spiderwebs of facial jewelry. The strange adornment looked good against the fiery shade of Brian's hair.

The fluttering feeling in Pat’s stomach is surely just the weed. No need to tamp it down, Pat thinks, everything’s completely under control and he’s just high. Really high.

Humming floats through the air, fragments of song flitting out of Brian in somber little bursts, 

_ I'd wait in line just to have you once… _

Pat looks away whenever Brian catches Pat staring with a cowardly tilt of a chin, a feigned nonchalance in the flick of his gaze-

_ Then you'll have me once… _

-but something in Brian’s expression makes Pat think Brian can see right through him anyways, some smoke-induced paranoia whispering in the back of his mind that Brian knows, he can hear Pat’s thoughts.

_ And I'll never be happy again…. _

He always seems to be watching right back. Eyes harsh and soft at the same time, the strike of a match and the following gasp of flame.

Pat has screwed his eyes shut and started counting the stumbling march of his heartbeat to think about anything, anything else when he realizes Brian’s singing had morphed into words. Ah, he’s going on again about the gift Pat’s brought him today.

“-smells so good. I’ve never seen real flowers before. Or at least, I can’t remember a time when I have.” 

Pat knows by now that there are gaps in Brian’s memories from before the brothel, although Brian hasn’t talked much about it. It’s not like he’d have to ask- Pat can put the pieces together to understand what happens when you’re fifteen and you go through a traumatic experience, which feeds into another, constantly occurring trauma- and all the while you do a bunch of drugs on the reg. 

Pat has long turned this piece of information over in his head, along with all the other troubling realizations he’s had about the brothel, trying to worry the sharp edges smooth with his contemplation. But now Pat can add a new thing to the list that his brooding nights have produced, and thank god something good’s going to come of his sleep deprivation. It’s a list of things to show and give Brian- things that make sure Brian’s new life is full of everything he deserves. 

God, Pat really is going soft, to the point where he’s got ‘show Brian all the desert flora’ on the top of his to-do list.

Thumbing gently at the bundle he’s got clutched against his breastbone, Brian continues as he rubs at the waxen-soft feel of its petals, “Flowers are usually impractical client gifts. Hard to find and transport, for one- they wilt under the scorching sun, and water’s not something they wanna spend on a dove.” 

The way Brian breathes it out makes it painfully obvious how much he likes them. It’s so like Brian to be so touched by the gesture, the kid adores lovely soft things and Pat wants to scream at the fierce, dear way Brian adores things.

Pat can feel his ears pinken as Brian’s words sink in. He just rolled up with a giant fistful of flowers like it was no big deal when of course it was. 

Then again, Pat knows that part of why he’d brought flowers was he knew it would be, for Brian.

Clearing his throat, “These’re called desert’s gold,” Pat pauses, voice stilted by something he doesn’t want to think about, “Soon enough I’ll show you all of the different wildflowers, they’re scattered out in the desert.”

Brian rests the clustered flowers back in the beer bottle Pat carried them in and fixes him with a smile.“You’ve been making a lot of promises about desert-life. I hope you’re ready to deliver on all the adventure and excitement you’re talking up.”

“Just you wait. The world’s not ready for the kind of hell-raiser we’ll turn you into,” Pat chuckles, jostling Brian by the shoulders.

Brian scoffs and tugs his stockings up by his thumbs, letting the cream-colored elastic loudly snap back in place, “Right, cuz I’ve been _ such _ an angel all my life.”

Pat wraps his finger in one of the curls spilling onto his shoulders and tugs, earning a smack to his knee. 

“_ Ow _\- nothing angelic about you, huh?” Pat drawls, rubbing at his knee while Brian cackles gleefully, then pouncing, grappling the kid underneath him. The kid struggles to free himself, laughing as he fails pretty spectacularly until Pat eases up on his hold.

“Hah- Just my pretty face-” Brian pants as he wrests a hand free and pinches Pat’s side so he can writhe away, “The rest’s all devil spawn.”

Pat wheezes as Brian’s knee catches him in the ribs as he goes. “That could be a dangerous combo,” Pat scoops up the wiggling bundle of sharp limbs and plops him on the other end of the couch, “but I gotta teach you how to fight for real sometime.”

They lay for a moment, breathing hard, Pat trying not to be infinitely pleased by the way Brian plays along- even if the kid’s just humoring Pat and the whole ridiculous ploy they’re stuck in.

Sitting up, Brian grabs a flower from the bunch, smoothing it face down on a book page, “I have to say, all this talk of freedom’s made me antsy. I can’t wait to see what's out there for myself, even if it’s not the grand adventure you make it out to be. I’m ready to finally live something instead of reading about it.”

Pat refrains from commenting, _ It could be an adventure if you joined the caravan with me. _

Simone was insistent that what the escapees do with their new lives should be up to them. It makes sense that they would want to settle down at home camp first, just to figure things out, but Pat can’t help being selfish. He doesn’t know if he could stand only seeing Brian when the caravan stops between missions. 

Brian muses to himself excitedly, lost in thought as he cuts and pastes himself into the collage of stories Pat has recounted. “I could learn to fight, sure, or how to drive- I want to ride on cattle and go dune-boarding- ooh, or set something on fire, something _ big. _” 

Snapping his book shut and pressing the flower between the pages, Brian tucks it away in one of his desk drawers, Pat watching him daydream fondly. Something even softer curls in Pat’s throat when he glimpses what’s inside the drawer before Brian creaks it shut. 

The bundle of nice pencils he’d brought for Brian to write with, the prickly pears and pilfered jewelry. It’s all there, except for the brass lighter that’s currently balanced on the lounge’s arm.

Suddenly Pat’s reaching for Brian’s hand, unthinking. 

“You keep a drawer of all the things I bring you?”

Brian looks just as startled as Pat is by the grasp on his wrist, but he makes no move to pull away. Then Brian registers what Pat had asked and flushes red. 

Brian blinks shyly for a moment, like he’d been caught, his words eking out carefully, as if they had an underbelly.

“I- uh. Your gifts are always so nice, I didn’t want to just throw ‘em with the rest of the crap I get. They um. Mean more to me, I guess.”

They both fall quiet, with Brian caught off guard with nothing to say, Pat unbearably touched and never good with words. They’re still connected, hand-to-wrist, their arms hovering awkwardly between them.

Pat finally speaks, “I didn’t think you actually liked the stuff I drag in here,” half self-deprecating, then recovering, “I’m glad though, really. Some of those were a pain to get a hold of.” 

Not all of the gifts were “war-spoils,” as Simone likes to crow whilst draped in jewelry and weapons. Jenna drives a hard bargain, especially fresh off a scrapping trip with a hoard of goods. Pat currently owes her a stick and poke- she didn’t specify who it would be on though, on her or another drunken one on Pat to match where she’d marked up his left hand. 

An odd look of trepidation overtakes Brian when he hears this before vanishing almost instantaneously, replaced by a small smile. 

He twists his hand so that he’s circling Pat’s wrist as well, then smoothing his grasp down Pat’s forearm, their arms shifting across each other like the thread of a loosening knot. In turn, Pat’s stomach knots at the weird shift in Brian’s attitude.

“You know, I’ve been rude,” Brian’s hand slides to rest on Pat’s shoulder as he sits down, a hot palm contrasting the cool murmur of his voice. “I haven’t shown my gratitude for what you’ve given me, for all the trouble you’re going through…”

Brian laughs a little ruefully, biting his lip as he slides his hand downwards. “Sorry I’ve only offered now, but better late than never, right?” 

Pat wishes he hadn’t smoked so much, it takes entirely too long to figure out where Brian’s going with this. His head spins a bit as his brain tries to catch up with the hand moving fast along his abdomen.

“Wait, you don’t mean-”

“You don't need to act like you’re above it, okay?” Brian stops him. “I won’t tell anyone back at camp, don’t worry. You’ve been so nice, feeding me, giving me all this stuff- you’re payin’ so much to pull off this rescue…” Assurances tumble out as hot fingers come up to press against Pat’s collarbone, “It’s the least I could do, Pat.”

Breath punches hard out of Pat, like he’d been hit. 

_ Act like you’re above it. _

Does Brian think Pat’s the kind of person to- 

Pat’s stomach churns in revulsion, disgusted at himself for anything he’s done to make the kid think Pat wants that from him as _ payment _. 

Or worse, maybe Pat didn’t do anything, and the kid’s just smart enough to tell that deep down, Pat’s as bad as the rest of them. 

Pat shouldn’t show how rattled he is, it's obvious that Brian honest to god thinks that it's a fine idea, that this is just a simple favor- and in Brian’s experience, it probably seems that way. But Pat doesn’t want a simple favor.

Nonetheless, Pat’s not doing a great job of keeping his cool, raking a hand through his hair and nearly ripping strands out in his distress, 

“Brian- I- no, you don’t owe me-” Pat stops and starts near hysterically as the other looks at him with something strangely guarded, still creeping closer and skimming his palms experimentally against Pat’s thighs.

Brian cocks a hip out when he braces an elbow against the lounge’s spine and presses the line of his body against Pat’s torso and Pat definitely shouldn’t have smoked so much because for a moment his mind blanks out and all he can think is _ this must be another dream, this can’t be real _.

It’s all wrong though, because Brian’s in his lap, smelling like wildflowers and heady smoke and he’s pulling out all the stops, batting those doe eyes and curving a leg over Pat’s to playfully nudge a foot along his shin. 

It’s all wrong because while Pat desperately wants Brian to look at him like this, to touch him like this, he _ knows _ Brian doesn’t mean it.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” Brian purrs quietly, face hovering just centimeters away from Pat’s. Close enough that Pat could lean forward and swallow those words up.

Seconds tick on while Pat blinks mutely instead, failing to choke _ any _ words out, and Brian becomes insistent.

_ “Tell me you don’t want me _.” It comes out thick, almost frustrated, his raw voice leaving the air charged.

Silence stretches gratingly between them.

Pulling his gaze away from the other’s impossibly intense eyes, Pat silently berates himself for the ever-growing weakness in his resolve. _ Don’t say shit, do _ not _ blow up your spot, Patrick _. The millions of reasons preventing Pat from giving into his feelings resurface in his mind. 

Pat’s not gonna tell Brian how much he actually wants him, and not for any transactional reason either. Pat’s not going to do that to the kid, who still needs to figure out the world- figure out _ himself- _ outside of this godforsaken brothel. 

He’s not going to be the asshole who tries to trick Brian into taking the first hand that beckons him to come.

“I-” Pat strangles out, almost painfully, heart twisting as he forces the words out,

“I don’t... want you _like_ _that_.” 

Pa would like to think it comes out vague enough, gentler than how he usually speaks, that he can say the truth without it shattering their whole situation. It doesn’t hurt any less.

Brian’s face doesn’t exactly fall, it merely closes off in a flinch, bitten-pink mouth flattening into a neutral line. 

He retreats from Pat’s space, the points where Brian had touched turning cold instantly, as if he hadn’t been there at all. Brian flashes a smile, scarily convincing, before he resumes packing the duffel bag. 

“Okay, I just thought I’d offer.”

___________

Brian had known, god, he had known things were going too good. Brian had gotten too cocky, entertaining daydreams of who he’d be, what he’d do out in the wastelands- Pat embarrassingly co-starring as the love interest in these wistful scenarios. 

Of course the moment he allows himself to grasp the bright fleece of hope that’s grown in his chest to spin it soft and golden into something more, something like dreams- that Brian would get over-eager and prick himself on the spindle.

It was hard to be preoccupied with wallowing about the way Pat had so clearly spurned Brian the other day when there were more pressing things to be upset about. Namely, the way present reality had torn Brian from musings of the future, abrupt and uncaring.

Usually it’s fine, Brian thinks in between wracking sobs, usually he’s got enough in him to get through the week, even when two thirds of his clients had been rough and humiliating in the not-so-fun way. 

Brian holds a lot of pride in his ability to roll with the way things go, a smile on his face all the while. He’s good at taking it and staying pretty, that’s the best part about him, he’s the toy that squeaks adorably and bounces back into shape after you step on it.

So Brian needs to fucking take it and bounce back. 

He’d usually be able to shrug off the way today’s session left him marked up so purple that the heather of his ripped garters and panties paled greatly in comparison. Fuck, he hadn’t even looked yet, hadn’t assessed the damage- _ okay Brian, you need to breathe _. The room fades away every now and then to be just a blur, the only real spot being the points where Brian’s body connects with the couch cushions. 

Maybe he’s freaking out because since Jonah and him fought, the Duke’s return has been one more shadow looming over Brian.

The too-tight ropes were an effective reminder, launching Brian back to the days where he was younger and just learning to dance- when the Duke would bind his limbs, tie and hang Brian in contorted positions until Brian’s body yielded, became flexible, fell into the taut marionette poses naturally. 

Brian had eventually _ mastered _ dance- he learned to flourish with it out of spite, determined not to let the joy in it be taken away.

Scrabbling for the brass lighter, Brian shakily lights a joint and tries not to look back down at his body. The Duchess is going to be _ pissed _if Jonah doesn’t shake enough extra coin out of the bastard. Somewhere outside his room, Brian could make out the malice laced in the familiar growl of Jonah's voice.

God, he was so _ stupid, _ he should’ve never traded away his syrup rations for _ hair dye. _Brian was foolish to think it was fine, that since he’s gone so long without it that he could just let go of at least two weeks worth of codeine.

Choking in a stuttering gasp, Brian thinks bitterly how _ stupid _ he is to ignore everything just because a little good had come around, how could he think that he’d ever get to leave this behind, leave it behind in a way where he’d forget about every cruelty he’s suffered, leave it in a way that someone like Pat could look at Brian and not be repulsed by the numerous handprints etched in his skin, welcome and unwelcome.

Brian’s dumb little heart got carried away again, not remembering how utterly _too_ _much _he is, how disastrous and needy and capricious and ruined he is to expect someone who’s got their shit together to want him. He should know better by now, shouldn’t he?

Forcing out a lungful of smoke, Brian tries to take a vague inventory of his surroundings. Jonah’s furious voice outside of Brian’s door has faded slightly, now talking low and quiet to someone. Is the client still there? Was Brian scheduled for another appointment? Fatigue has sunk in too deep for Brian to do another session, and he hasn’t even begun to clean himself up and pull out of this murky headspace.

He buckles down to let go of today’s events, letting them seep away, forgotten, unreal, it never even happened. Another moment stretches on, Brian floating further from reality, closing his eyes and settling into blankness as he tries to decipher the voices outside. God, he’s so sore. A wince of memories return sharply in a moment of _ ah, right, that’s why _, before Brian stifles them again. 

Eventually, he hears Jonah’s voice raise slightly, frustratedly hissing out the word _ Pat. _

“Pat?” Brian echoes, barely registering how distant his own voice sounds.

The murmuring outside goes quiet. 

Pat. Why isn’t Pat in here? Wasn’t he supposed to come today? He should be here, Brian needs someone here, the steady shoulder to lean on, the blanketing feeling of safety Pat brings. 

“Pat, is that you?” Brian calls out again, and all he can think about is _ wow _ , his voice is raspy _ . _

Another bout of murmuring starts up outside his door, Jonah’s voice urging.

The door creaks open and Pat hesitantly peeks in. 

Jonah nudges him through the threshold, directing, “Take care of him while I deal with this.”

Brian can feel the breath rush out of him in relief when Pat comes closer, then startles at the worried flint of Pat’s eyes and the tight way he’s holding his shoulders.

Snapping out of his absentmindedness, Brian remembers himself, the tears shining down his cheeks, the splotches across his body. He hears Pat suck in a sharp breath when his eyes rake over the bright rope burns, the pink circling his wrists, the bite marks covering Brian in an obscene floral pattern. 

Jerking out of his curled position, Brian absurdly tries to make himself presentable, joint falling forgotten to the floor, scraps of explanation burbling out of him. 

“Pat! Sorry- I didn’t think you were coming so soon- I have to clean up- bad session-”

“What happened?” Pat asks haltingly, poorly hidden rage clipping through his voice.

Furiously wiping at his cheeks, his thighs, Brian tries to rid himself of tears and splatters of stickiness. It’s a pointless grapple for dignity, Brian completely mortified to now realize he had _called_ Pat in here. 

“Please don’t be mad- you should go, I shouldn’t have asked for you, you don’t have to deal with me-”

“What happened.” Pat repeats in a near growl, and Brian thinks with terror that the harsh clench in Pat’s jaw is from disgust.

Ah, now it’s all going to spill over.

“It was my fucking fault- this one was too rough and I didn’t have any thing to help numb-” Brian keeps starting and stopping, his thoughts colliding into eachother, “I couldn’t keep still- shouldn’t have traded away all my goddamn syrup-” He hiccups out nonsensically, gripping at the sides of his hickeyed ribcage, "I’m so fucking stupid, I can’t believe he had to tie me up!"

The look in Pat’s eyes turns murderous for a moment before widening at the way Brian flinches, hissing in pain when the movement pushes at a bad bruise.

When he looks up, Pat’s body was stuck in a strange lurch towards Brian, as if he’d been subconsciously drawn to grab the trembling figure before him, but his hands are fisted up. 

Pat lets his arms drop down to his sides, defeated, like he’s been wracking his brain on how to fight his way through this and came up with nothing. 

Brian keeps apologizing unintelligibly as he gathers himself, he’s fine, really, he can break through the panic, just watch.

Body willed to stop shaking, Brian stills and masters his face, tucks his hands primly in his lap. For some reason, the quick transformation to normalcy makes Pat look even more upset.

“Sorry I’m such a mess right now- I’m just a cry baby, this shit’s nothing new,” Brian says, all flip. Then he musters enough calm to put on the mask to crack a joke, see, he’s fine, “Hah, if you were a real customer, you’d want your money back. Not the kind of wet you had in mind-”

“_ Brian _. Don’t say shit like that.” His name rips fiercely out of Pat’s chest, ragged like it got caught in his throat.

The other pauses to rein himself in a bit, “It’s okay that you’re upset.”

And then whatever words of comfort Pat was apparently bursting with left him at a loss. The room falls quiet in Pat’s helplessness, besides the shuddering remains of Brian’s panic attack.

“Should- I don’t know how- What do you want?” Pat asks, then winces at its bluntness. 

Brian stops straining to keep still at that, then realizes that with no other outlet, he had jammed his nails between his teeth, biting anxiously until their green lacquer chipped away. Abruptly, he flings his hands away from himself. 

“How can I help you?” Pat tries again, gentler this time. 

Breaking from his distraction, “Sorry- I-” Brian looks back up, “Could you touch me?” 

Pat startles a bit before Brian quickly says, “Don’t, um, hold me right now.” 

Brian casts his arms in front of him, exposing the mottled pale skin of his wrists, “Could you hold my hands first? And just- squeeze them?”

Pat nods and exhales in relief, grateful for something he can do, some comfort he can provide. 

“I don’t want to fuck up my nails more than I already have,” Brian sniffles a little as he sways to stand up, ignoring the way Pat steps forward to try and steady Brian. “But having a sensation to focus on helps.” 

Pat carefully takes Brians trembling hands into his, curling nimble fingers under his and squeezing firmly. 

“Breathe,” rumbles out into the quiet.

The taller man seems to be listening for Brian’s breaths as they settle down into a steadier pace. Probably not risking to look up and see the rise and fall of Brian’s marked-up chest, Pat’s eyes stay on the clasped fingers between them, palms upwards. 

Calmer by the second, a distant part of Brian tries not to marvel at how Pat’s large hands envelope his own perfectly. They stand silently together, surrounded by the room’s stale smoky air and the salt of sweat and tears. 

Eventually Brian’s breathing evens out- barely registering he was matching his own pattern to the other’s.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” slips out of Pat with no trace of hesitation. 

“Do you want to lay down?” He’s still scowling slightly, as Pat often is anyways, but relief has edged its way through.

Brian nods and Pat wraps himself around Brian as they ease onto the cushions.

He feels _ exhausted, _the ache of the bruises and burns dull in comparison to Brian’s bone-deep tiredness. He’s too tired to think about how nice this would be, under different circumstances, he’s too tired to think about how he’ll never really have this, Pat’s just doing this to be nice.

Pat must sense Brian’s lack of words and starts to speak instead, quiet and steady. 

“I -um. was gonna tell you about the church- the ring- _ everything _ today. I know I keep avoiding it- it’s just because I don’t want people to know what it was like. What I was like.” he pauses. 

The uncertainty buried in Pat’s voice surprises Brian. Brian knew Pat’s done some shit, spilled some blood- but the way his voice shakes slightly makes Brian realize that Pat thinks he’s _ unlovable _ because of it.

Pat’s arms wrap loosely around Brian’s ribs, hand tucked over Brian’s own. “It just doesn’t feel fair to know basically everything about you-” Brian somewhat successfully stifles a laugh at that, because that’s definitely not true. He can picture Pat’s brow furrowing confusedly behind him.

“-But um, I’m not sure you wanna hear about all of it right now.”

Curiosity thrums a little in Brian’s chest, “I still want to know.”

“It ain’t happy,” Pat warns huskily.

“ ‘S okay, most things aren't,” Brian says matter-of-factly, unable to ignore the reason why they’re laying so still together, careful of pressing too hard on bruises and bringing reality crashing back down.

Pat seems to steel himself, bracing a hand on Brian’s shoulder before he speaks again.

_ “The _ church, as they called it, is the community I grew up in. It was more of a cult than anything. I won’t get into the boring details about all the rites and services, but it was just constant worship, our whole lives revolved around it.”

“Did you hate following all the sacraments?” Brian asks, picturing a younger Pat, leaner and short-haired, performing rites with all the dedication and focus he treats almost everything with now. It’s strange to imagine the man behind him as a fresh-faced teen, but somehow Brian can envision his boyishness perfectly.

“Nah. At first, I just happily mimicked whatever my family did- I didn’t know any better. But then I got older and started questioning everything they told me, everything we did. It was all so hypocritical. Sometimes they'd go and chase away travelers looking for help, calling them heretics beyond saving.”

Pat draws in a breath, holds it, then lets it whoosh out against Brian’s neck.

“I tried- I really did try to be like everyone else, be a man’s man. But I wasn’t great at it, I guess, since my father kept a switch around to keep me in line, toughen me up. Used his hands when it was too far off, then sometimes coals if we were near the altar fires.”

“Jesus,” Brian mutters wincingly.

“It wasn’t really obvious that I was different until he married me off.”

Brian stiffens slightly against Pat. He forces himself to relax as he takes all this in, refraining from blurting _ you’ve been married this whole time _?

Pat seems grateful for Brian’s patience, his thumb tracing the line of a rib absently.

“He arranged my marriage with a head priest’s daughter. She was the nicest-looking girl my age and no doubt would bring my family closer to God- and the top of the church hierarchy.” Pat snarks out.

Brian tries not to let disappointment mix with the distress that had stagnated in his stomach as he imagines some pretty wife out there, waiting for Pat to come whisk her away from the cult ranks.

What Pat says next takes Brian by surprise.

“The problem was, I didn’t like girls at all. I couldn’t-” Pat says haltingly, then stops, clearing his throat. “We were pretty young- sixteen- but marriage was what we were supposed to do. Go get married and suddenly, sex wasn’t forbidden anymore- it was your _ job _to have kids and make new church members.” 

“To fuck them into the woman you’re given, raise ‘em and put the fear of God in them,” Pat mutters bitterly, like he’s parroting something he’s heard many times before.

Eyes pressing shut, Brian squeezes Pat’s fingertips comfortingly. No wonder Pat, so awkward and gruff at times, looked out of element when it came to relationships and sex. The brothel must be an awful reminder of the burden placed on him.

“I wasn’t really affectionate with her, even in the weird stunted way married couples were in the church. She deserved much better than me. She wanted kids like we were supposed to. She wanted me to love her,” regret burning acrid in Pat’s voice.

“I couldn’t in good conscience bring kids into that world- god, could you imagine me as a_ father _?” Pat bites out incredulously, then laughs. “Eventually they figured I was a faggot if I couldn’t lay with a wife as pretty as her.”

“I’m so sorry.” Brian breathes out, taking Pat’s hands back into his apologetically.

“Well, it turned out okay I guess. It was my ticket out of there. My own parents led the charge to run me out- I’m lucky they didn’t try to kill me. Got a nasty torch burn on my back from it, but I was free.”

“I’m glad you got out in the end.” Brian says soothingly, anger at the world fizzling somewhere distantly inside him. He patiently prompts, “Did Thomas take you to Polygon after that?”

Pat sounds tired when he answers, like he hadn’t expected the story to take so much out of him. “No, it took some years on my own before I met him.” 

Pat seems unsure of himself, then nestles his chin over Brian’s shoulder, sighing, “I’ll tell you about those years some other time. I promise.”

They lay quietly for a moment before Brian pipes up again.

“Do you miss it?” He stops himself, then rushes to explain.

“-I mean, I know things were awful and painful- but if anyone knows how complicated things can feel when it’s the people you_ love _ who have hurt you...” Brian trails off in place of the _ I do _. Some part of Brian feels glad that at least they’re connected by this, that they can understand this side of each other.

Pat’s quiet for a moment at Brian’s words, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. He seems to give up puzzling after a few seconds and nods easily. 

“I miss the good parts. It wasn’t all so bad to devote myself, to feel like I was loved by a god and I was part of something when I was serving him.” Pat says solemnly, then stops and thinks for a moment. “And I miss the sea.”

Brian perks up, thinking of the spotty memories he has of the village he grew up in. “I used to live near the ocean too. So much blue- I haven’t seen so much water in one place since. It seemed infinite.”

Pat nods and curls closer around Brian, their breaths slow and comforted by what’s been spilled into the quiet, carefully taking each other’s truths and folding it into their palms. They can carry this together, despite all the strangeness between them.

“You must miss it too.”

Brian hums affirmatively, ignoring the way his gut yearns for the past, instead tracing the swirl of a wave across the back of Pat’s hand. His eyes are drifting closed when Pat’s voice murmurs against his neck wistfully,

“Maybe someday we can make it back to the coast.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please let me know what you think in the comments! I worked really hard to get this one a good balance of angst and comfort and establish some more backstory for these two. The song mentioned in this one is Wait by ryan hemsworth, keaton henson and mitski. Thank you for reading :) y'all really keep me motivated, if you want come say hi to me on Tumblr @itsachaliceforyourthoughts. Next chapter is definitely going to pick up the pace, so get ready for some more conflict!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been a hot second, as we get closer to the end of this installment I've been writing the last few chapters simultaneously to make sure it all matches up. This chapter took a bit of work but y'alls comments helped me power through <3  
Heads up, there are some mentions of past underage sex (no explicit depictions), a small mention of blood and sexual acts. drugs and alcohol are in this chapter (like most of them lol)
> 
> ((edit: I forgot to add a link to a playlist I made when figuring out the brothel characters and Brian's relationship w/ them, [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/64X1dyy0BZwotD6yrx63G2?si=93I-CDlbQtW7do8RbQ6_Fg) it is if anyone's interested! ))
> 
> Enjoy!

Brian hisses as Laura helps him into an elastic-paneled corset, a couple of fading bruises still tender under the vice of fabric. It fills him with some sort of comfort and sadness, the feeling of familiarity in this scene. At this point, moments like this are dreamy deja vu, his life circling and circling until Brian’s once again sat in some dressing room, air thick with sweetness and Laura’s quiet rage, the two of them cloaking bruises and hickeys with frills. 

Too marked up for normal client sessions, the Duchess put him on more dancing duty than usual this week. Not that Brian’s complaining- he doesn’t mind getting roughed up if he gets to perform instead of seeing johns.

Brian glances down, honing in on the furious look in Laura’s eyes. Her hands, grasping each glittering string, have stilled in their practiced lacing.

“Who gives a good god damn about the harvest cycles,” Laura lets her hands drop, muttering severely, “I can’t keep watching this keep happening to you when we could escape whenever-”

“Laura,” Brian starts placatingly. Again, that feeling of familiarity, sameness.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but Simone should know better! After just _leaving_ us alone, thinking that she had _died_-” Laura’s voice breaks and she stops herself. She picks the laces up and resumes working them tighter with renewed fervor. 

“Simone should know that every second we spend here, you’re _ suffering _. She knows what happens here, she’s seen how people treat you- don’t even get me started on what the Duke’s done-”

“It’s going to be different for us soon,” Brian interrupts sharply. 

Her mouth just flattens into an unapologetic line, rightfully so, because Laura’s not wrong to be angry. 

But Brian doesn’t want to fight either. He just. Doesn’t want to think about all that right now. 

“I know it’s not like, _the_ _greatest_ organization of priorities but I _like_ this plan- and Simone’s just one person. Sure, she’s got new people to take care of, and they’re all trying to make it all work, but don’t act like she’s _abandoned_ us or something.”

Laura stays silent, and Brian feels an immediate pang of guilt. He knows Laura’s been conflicted about seeing Simone again, especially when their whole _ thing _ was strange in the first place. Brian doesn’t remember a ton of communication happening, just them scolding him whenever he’d come in without knocking. And then some yelling behind thin walls when Laura first found out Simone was getting Brian into her bed too. 

Brian drapes a bolt of sheer fabric over himself, letting Laura fasten it at his hips so the pink material falls mid-thigh in glossy waves. Brian twists around to test his flexibility in the corset, satisfied when Laura’s lace job seems to allow a decent range of movement. The room is quiet for a moment longer, apart from the incessant moaning from next door.

“And-” Brian exhales, finding little relief in the motion now that he’s fully laced up, “I want them to pay. I want the Duchess and Duke to hurt for everything. And hey! Everyone else wins in this situation. Pat says-” Brian falters just barely, “The people working to get us out will really benefit from the supplies. It seems like they could really be home for us.”

Laura sighs, and the sound doesn’t cut so harsh anymore.

Fighting a smile, she watches Brian fasten his pair of pink bunny ears with a handful of hair clips, “I swear to god, if it’s because you just want to bring the most weed with us as possible-” 

Brian cuts her off with a laugh, offended and delighted all at once.

It’s a peace offering- Laura good-naturedly prodding at Brian. He takes it graciously, because Brian’s familiar with preferring death to admitting when his sister makes a good point.

Brian bobbles his head, letting the ears bounce as he presses an insulted hand to his chest.

“Listen, you _ know _ I can’t give up my steady wake-and-bake routine!”

Laura’s grin sobers slightly as she steps closer, taking Brian’s face into her hands.

“You know I’m really proud of you, right? You are so _ strong, _Bri. I know I fuss over you a lot,” Laura turns mischievous once more, “But it’s only because you’re still a baaabyy in my eyes,” roughly thumbing at his cheeks and squishing them so Brian’s eyes are nearly pushed shut.

“_ Laura, stop- my makeup!” _Brian garbles indignantly, mouth puckered like a gaping fish.

“I mean it. About being proud. And you’ve done more than your fair share of sacrifice for me.” She releases his squirming face but keeps her gaze firmly fixed on him. 

“I love every second I’m with you, but if you have things you want to see and do when we get out of here-” Laura takes his hands into hers very deliberately, “-if there’s _ people _you want to spend time with, don’t think that I’m going to hold you back.”

Embarrassed, Brian can only smile and softly pat the back of her hands, a silly gesture that only emphasizes the sudden twinge of unfledged _ youth _he feels under Laura’s steady, wisened manner. 

Later, Brian sits backstage, unwieldy heels kicked up onto a crate of lighting cables, puffing on a cigarette. A few other doves are perched around the narrow space enclosed by the scrim parallel to the backdrop. They lounge amongst the shadowed towers of boxes and set pieces, whispering fervently while they wait for their routines to start. Their own trails of smoke curl through the musty air, disappearing and reappearing in the light that peeks through when someone pushes aside the legs disguising the backstage wings. Brian likes being backstage, being able to ruminate in what feels like a cocoon, with its dusty heaviness, unlit save for the glowering ends of joints, little amber dots dancing in the dark.

Brian’s not sure he exactly has a chance at the life that Laura’s encouraging him to pursue. He almost feels bad, like he had gotten her hopes up about having a- a someone to spend his new freedom with. 

But after the last few visits, Brian’s not as certain as he’d like to be about Pat’s feelings. It’s not quite hope that makes Brian second guess Pat being disinterested in him. Just- Brian’s noticed some things that are impossible to pass off as purely platonic. And at least now he has some idea as to why Pat clams up, shrinks away from certain topics, looks at Brian like Pat’s _ ashamed _ of something.

With an air of finality, Brian flicks the ashes off his cigarette into the open drawer of an adjacent vanity, deciding that he won't ask, won’t push Pat for any hard answers, no matter how confusing the other’s signals are. 

___

The audience is small tonight- most of the clients are holed away in private rooms or playing poker in the Duchess’s private suite. As such, Brian’s planned performance is a little more controlled- sultry, restrained demonstrations of his athleticism so that he can imbue song lyrics with the pent up desire. The dynamic of unhinged, yearning vocals with poised mastery over his body was an impressive feat achieved through collaborative directing. 

Working on performances is one thing Brian is sure he will miss.

He matches each step to the heavy march of the beat, circling around the pole center-stage. Reaching out slowly, he lifts a hand to grasp the pole before arching backwards suddenly with the thump of percussion.

On stage, Brian can shapeshift and manifest whatever vision he and the other doves can imagine. 

Letting the music stretch on a bit longer, Brian silently swings himself up and curls himself around the pole, a perfect s-shape of arched back and folded legs. The crowd whoops appreciatively as he freezes in position, spinning around slowly.

_ “In the rearview mirror,” _

Thighs aching slightly from holding that pose, Brian reaches and shimmies upwards, then lets his legs relax and swing out in a slow arc. 

_ “I saw the setting sun on your neck,” _

He lets his legs twine back around the pole at the end of their arc, leaning back with one arm curving outwards. 

_ “And felt the taste of you bubble up inside me” _

Aligning his spine with the pole once more, Brian twists and swings his legs out in a quick sweep. Grasping the pole firm between both hands, Brian draws in a bracing breath and uses the momentum of his lower body to swing upwards, smoothly curling his torso in on itself until he’s upside down. 

The spotlights across the room blind Brian for a moment, so that he moves instinctually to hook a leg above one of his hands and keep steady as he sings.

_ “But with everybody watching us, _

Eyesight finally adjusting to the bright lights, Brian nearly double takes when his orbit lets him distinguish the closest faces in the darkened crowd.

_ “Our every move,” _

Brian distractedly continues, relying on muscle memory; he’d been so caught up in performing he had only _ now _ recognized Pat’s face in the audience, so close that he’s practically an arms-length from the edge of the stage. Brian swoops his voice up into a high note,

_ “We do have reputations,” _

They lock eyes, topsy-turvy, with Brian contorted and upside down, Pat wearing an indelible expression. 

Normally, that would be the first thing Brian looks for when onstage- except Pat didn’t mention he was planning on coming tonight.

_ “We keep it secret,” _

Brian sings, craning his neck in effort to keep his eyes on Pat even as he swivels. Brian splays his legs into a split before lowering them and uprighting himself, his core burning to keep the transition languid. 

_ “Won't let them have it,” _

He slowly air walks as he descends, delicately touching down on the floor with a twirl.

“_ So come inside and be with me, _

_ Alone with me,” _

Haloed by the stage lights behind him, Pat’s still staring, oil spill eyes fixed on Brian with heart-shaking intensity. Brian lowers himself onto his knees, dipping to the floor as he crawls closer to Pat.

_ “Alone, _

_ With me alone,” _

Pat’s expression only flickers with surprise at Brian’s sudden proximity, Brian boldly laid out in front of Pat on his stomach, heels cocked in the air.

He offers his hand to Pat, pinky first, crooning,

_ “If you would let me give you pinky promise kisses.” _

Pat’s long, finely boned pinky hitches around his own hesitantly, then- inscrutably- his lips follow to press a light kiss to their interlocked fingers. It startles Brian’s sly smirk into a soft smile.

Whenever Pat does soft things- soft things like _ this- _ Brian’s filled with a strange tilting feeling. It’s unlike himself to be caught off guard so thoroughly, and it seems altogether like and unlike Pat to be so earnest.

Blinking, Brian retreats smoothly, pushing backwards and rolling his hips, because _ jesus, _ he needs to focus if he’s going to belt out this next part.

_ “Then I wouldn't have to scream your name _

_ Atop of every roof in the city of my heart,” _

He finishes the rest of his routine, curving around the pole, serpentine and slow, flicking a glance to Pat every now and then. It takes great effort to not let the swelling feeling in his chest distract him. 

_ “If I could see you, _

_ Once more to see you.” _

Once the curtains draw closed, Brian lets himself just stand in place for a moment to take it in, curling his fingers into the soft skin at his midsection and catching his breath.

Treading reluctantly to the Duchess’s bedroom, his last commitment of the night, Brian tries to keep his face from falling into some soft awed expression because-

That definitely wasn’t a scheduled mission visit.

Pat came to watch him for some other reason, and Brian is astute enough to recognize that reason was written all over the relentless gaze Pat had watched him with.

___

Brian strides through the halls with intention, a half-hearted attempt to make it on time to dress rehearsal after his fitting ran too long. Tonight’s crowd will be a little bigger, a little rowdier- and it’s the night Pat was scheduled to visit next. 

Excitement thrums at the base of his throat at seeing Pat, Brian didn’t get the chance to talk to him when he had appeared unexpectedly last time. There’s plenty to discuss with the mission plans too, especially since Rowan’s told him about the harvesting doves.

Brian’s preoccupied with his thoughts, re-adjusting the costume slung over his shoulder when a familiar thin chain flicks around his wrist and yanks him backwards. The sensation sends his stomach sinking.

A sneering voice. “I’ve been gone for a while, I hope you haven't forgotten who you belong to.”

“Of course, who else would I be if not yours?” Brian asks in return without a beat, turning to face the Duke with a doe-eyed look. He’s got a new scar creeping out from the collar of his shirt, and his lip’s split, or it was at one point. Must be Brennan’s work.

“I just heard you picked up another regular who’s reeaal sweet on you,” he drawls.

“Oh don’t start this again. It’s all in the name of the game, Duke, you know that.” Brian says.

“Hm.”

Brian continues, unnerved by Duke’s scrutiny, “He’s the same as all the rest, right? But real sentimental, just lonely enough to pretend that I could love him. And you know I can play the part, easy.”

Upon further inspection, it seems the Duke’s gotten a head start on celebrating tonight’s performance, already drunk and/or high. 

Duke raises a brow, “Alright. But just remember, there’s only one thing you’re good for. These fuckers just want that tight little body.” 

The Duke steps closer, and yep- his breath smells like a lovely blend of whiskey and tobacco. 

“I don’t blame ‘em, it’s irresistible,” he grabs Brian sweetly, voice darkening, “No matter how sloppy the seconds are.” 

He smirks, tightens his grip, “Sorry, sloppy fifths, hundredths- I’m sure you’ve lost count.”

Brian stays quiet, letting the words just wash over him. If he keeps his mouth shut, maybe the Duke won't keep poking for a reaction. He’s really gonna be late for rehearsal now.

“_ Shit _, how rude of me!” the Duke lets go, claps a hand to his forehead, laughing like he couldn’t believe himself, “Can you even count?”

Brian steels himself, biting the inside of his mouth when resentment flashes through him.

The Duke’s grinning so wide it looks more like a grimace. Something caustic rises in Brian.

“I can count enough to know that if you saw how much he’s forking over for me, you wouldn’t be so prickly. Don’t let _ your _feelings get in the way of business.”

Brian nearly regrets the last bit as soon as it snaps out of his mouth, because apparently the topic of _ business _ strikes a nerve with the Duke.

The Duke tightens the chain with a jerk, his smile satisfied by the reaction but eyes cold.

“Don’t yap at me, bitch, or I’ll keep you leashed.”

Abruptly, Brian’s sorry he said anything at all. He should’ve just dropped to his knees as soon as he saw the Duke- it would’ve been a hell of a lot faster with the same ending. There’s no winning with this man. Brian knows that. 

Brian swallows his anger down and lets a sly smile creep over his face. He brings his forearm up to his mouth and takes the chain between his teeth, pulling the cinch tighter around his wrist.

Brian intones, “Please do, _ daddy _.”

The Duke barks a laugh. “God, you’re a delightful little slut. C’mere. Running your mouth ain’t a good look when you could be putting it to work.”

Not wanting the chain to leave marks, Brian lets himself get tugged closer with ease. He purrs into the other’s mouth before it will surely bite, 

“Speaking of work, I’m on in an hour. Let's make this quick.” 

Brian gasps out at the bittersweet familiarity of being roughly pushed into the nearest room, autonomy plucked from him in seconds. 

___

Hm. Well, Pat was not expecting having to deal with _ this _ tonight.

The Duke- rather, a man Pat presumes to be the Duke- is sitting at a nearby booth, the gauzy red table cloth barely obscuring the two slim figures underneath, twining up his legs. Judging by his carefree attitude towards the spectacle, this dude definitely owns the place.

The crowd is still filtering in, chatting amongst themselves, and occasionally a regular will greet Pat as they pass by, having bumped into each other in the brothel quite often at this point. He grins through it and firmly shakes hands, remembers names and makes crass jokes.

Pat’s got a less-than-decent seat tonight, if you’re talking about how close he is to the stage. Pat’s got the best seat in the house for checking out the Duke though.

A guard is muttering lowly into the Duke’s ear, somewhat in vain because the man seems to be distracted, smiling filthily at any dove that passes by. He looks like _ the _ poster-boy of salacious pimps, with a fancy overcoat draped over the back of his chair, all slicked back hair and a greasy, boozy air to him. A clear tube pokes out from his rolled up sleeves, runs down his arm and is fixed with gold rings to his pointer finger.

Pat watches the tube curiously as scarlet runs through it when the Duke tips it into a server dove’s mouth, letting them drink eagerly. The man leans back and grins as the server licks her lips, now stained as red as his. Syrup.

The dove dizzily sets down some glass flutes of wine- which the duke nearly knocks over when the heads underneath the table bob their heads up and down a little faster. Pat tries not to wrinkle his nose and continues surveying the booth.

The Duke reaches over to smack the server’s ass as they stumble along to the next table, shouting “Don't spill the drinks-” before he hisses out sharply. Like the strike of a rattlesnake, the Duke abruptly wrings a golden chain around his palm and yanks hard, dragging up a disheveled dove from under the table and scolding her. 

Pat winces at the way each jolt of the chain harshly tugs at the golden collar clasped at the dove’s neck. Pat wonders if it’d be too risky to go over and interrupt, his hand dropping to his waist, itching for a weapon that isn’t there.

The Duke seems to lose interest in the other dove’s’ ministrations, shooing them both out from under the table and zipping himself up. 

The collared pair of doves stand droopily at attention, wiping their mouths and smoothing their hair as they seem to wait for instruction from the man on the other end of their chains, who just breathlessly gulps down a glass of wine. He extends out a straight arm before dropping the empty flute at their feet, letting the glass shatter as he tugs them towards him, entertained as they hop over the spray of shards. 

Horrified, Pat watches as the doves just laugh, one collapsing forward onto the table in drunken giggles as she swipes up blood from a cut on her bare legs, the other crushing the soles of his heels into the glass as he steps close lick it off her finger.

Pat turns his attention back to his cup when the Duke’s attention strays to the rest of the room. Eyeing the booth in his peripheral, Pat watches as a few patrons saunter over to talk to the Duke, the two doves handed off to a new table in the blink of an eye.

Startlingly, as soon as the golden reigns are exchanged from one syrup stained hand to the next, the Duke’s standing up and striding over, closer to Pat, shit- directly towards Pat.

The Duke stops at Pat’s table, gesturing to the seat next to him. “Evening. Is this spot open?”

“It’s yours if you want it.” Pat replies nonchalantly.

The Duke settles into the seat next to him, asking for a drink from a passing server, _ no, make that two, one for the fellow here _. Pat studies him cooly, making sure he’s not about to get poisoned or some shit, and accepts the drink with grace. The lights are dimming by the time he turns back towards the stage- the performance is about to begin, thank god.

It’s as enrapturing as usual, except for the entire time Pat is hyper aware of the man sitting at his arm, knocking back the same drink Pat’s nursing. Clapping loud and obnoxious, the Duke wolf-whistles when Brian comes on.

Brian’s not fazed at the jeering, continues dancing and shifting between other performers gracefully, striding atop of strange goat-legged heels. He’s wearing a long white top with material forming milky puffs and drapes at the hem. Brian’s collar cinches below his exposed collarbones and chest, nipples barely peeking above the neckline. Sleek little wings clipped from some white bird form a neck piece, sitting perfectly clasped at the delicate skin of his throat, wingtips pointed upwards grazing his jawline with every movement.

The Duke noisily sparks a joint next to Pat, leans back in his chair without taking his eyes off of the doves onstage. So, this is the man that Pat’s gonna take everything from.

Finding himself perfectly at peace with that, Pat settles into his seat, watching the performance go by in a blur.

After the show, Brian gets caught up conversing with some customers when all the doves emerge from the hallways. The Duke’s busy getting another drink, so Pat’s just stuck watching Brian let an older woman lick a smear of syrup off his wrist while another holds him in place by the hips. Brian’s gaze flicks subtly to Pat in recognition of the Duke sitting next to him, then he raises his eyebrows as if to say _ sorry, I'm a little occupied right now. _

The Duke’s voice jerks Pat’s attention away. 

“I've had him for a looong time. Kept him since he was young. Cutie, right?”

Pat forces down the disgust coiling in his stomach, making his face stay sharp and mouth curl up in a smirk. Pat slouches douchily against the table, letting out a low whistle. “He’s cute alright. I can only imagine what the kid fucked like back then, you’re a lucky son of a bitch.”

The Duke sneers approvingly, hands Pat another drink. “I like the way you think.” When Pat says nothing further, the Duke licks his lips and drones, “Yeeep, he was sweet and docile as could be. Poor thing was convinced he was _in_ _love_ with my wife and I-” the Duke huffs out a chuckle, “-the kid used to think he’d be good enough to transcend dove status.” 

Startled, Pat tries to hide his expression in his drink. The man just mindlessly knocks the back of his hand to Pat’s shoulder, laughing as if to say _ could you believe that? _

Pat knew Brian started playing favorite to keep him and Laura in good graces way back when but. 

In his head, he pictures Brian, laying in bed, patiently listening to Pat before murmuring _when it’s the people you love who have hurt you- _

God. This whole thing was so sick.

The Duke takes a swig of his drink, “Apollo’s still so _ fucking _ annoying when that little ego of his rears its head, ‘specially when the wife spoils him.” He waves a casual hand towards Pat, “It's fun to remind him what he’s _good_ at, I'm sure you know.” Pat feels himself grow cold with anger. He knows this would be a fantastic time to gather intel, but it's also a fantastic time to clock the man next to him.

Surprise overtakes Pat’s rage when a woman, dripping in glass vial necklaces, braces her hands against the tabletop.

“Hope you aren't bothering this lovely, _ paying _ customer,” says the Duchess, her manicured claws tapping rhythmically, “Pat’s been ever so generous to the brothel since he picked someone to court.”

“I’m just making conversation, honey, I heard we all have similar tastes,” The Duke’s condescending tone strains her smile.

The Duke turns back to Pat, “As I was _ saying _ , you should try him out with some syrup in him. Apollo gets all nice and _ limp- _ barely knows where he is. But you gotta pay extra,” he jabs a thumb towards the Duchess, “the missus doesn’t like dosing him up, she wants to keep him nice and perky for her.”

This is now verging into some weird, batshit mimicry of a domestic that Pat does not want to be stuck in the middle of.

The Duchess’s crimson lips are still smiling widely, but her eyes are glaring daggers at her husband. “I can keep whatever pets I want. _ I’m _ actually successful at running my side of things.”

He continues as if he hadn’t heard her remark, “She gets all up my ass for being _ so possessive of him _ ,” mocking her voice loudly, and the way he’s turning towards his wife makes it clear that Pat’s just there to be talked at, “Can you believe it? _ I _ know it's bad business to get emotionally attached, _ I _ don’t go around giving them books and treating them like they’ve got a _ brain- _”

“Have some fucking class, _ darling _, and quit making a scene in my brothel.”

“_Your _ brothel?”

“Whose name’s on the front? Who’s been running things while you’re off blowing my money and chasing away allies?”

Pat chances a look back at Brian, who’s watching the ordeal with an appalled look that’s just as strangely comical as the rest of the situation. 

Taking Brian’s horror as a warning, Pat stands and starts backing away, “Uh, excuse me, I’ll just leave you two to-”

The Duchess’s voice smooths into something cool and collected with frightening ease. This whole thing's getting Pat anxious.

“I’m sorry about my husband, dear. Why don’t you go treat yourself to the bathhouse with Apollo tonight? On the house.”

The Duke barks a laugh at that, a disturbing contrast to the half-slurred, sleazy way he’s spoken all night. 

“Hah! Right, the fuckin’ customers are always top priority. Pat, that’s your name, right?”

Pat plants himself in place and raises a brow, letting himself look irritated at their bullshit.

“Who fucking cares about names anyways,” he laughs, either unbothered by or oblivious to Pat’s hardass routine. “Apologies for our unprofessionalism,” The Duke drawls. “Let me show you my new party trick, hm? Let’s dip into my personal supply- most clients can’t get their hands on this stuff.”

The Duke’s hands go to a pocket in his jacket lining, digging around. The Duchess’s mouth presses into a peeved thin line.

Pat’s mind runs through the possible scenarios, stifled fear rolling in his gut, and braces himself to take whatever cocktail the Duke’s about to offer. The Duke procures a corked glass vial, fidgets with the golden valve on the clear tube running down his arm, then fills the vial with syrup that definitely looks a darker red than it did before.

It comes as a surprise, when instead of handing Pat the dark vial, the Duke just lolls his head over towards where Brian stands. 

“Apollo, come.” He calls boredly, like he’s beckoning a fucking dog.

Brian trots over, an expectant smile perched on his lips. The dread in Pat’s stomach doesn’t alleviate when he searches Brian’s expression for any wide-eyed fear and comes up with nothing. He watches the Duke hook a hand into the waistband of Brian’s garter set and roughly drag him closer.

The Duke’s voice drops into a murmur as he inspects the Brian’s outfit. “The fuck’s she got you wearing?”

Brian’s face falls prettily, all big watery eyes. “What, you don’t like it?” he asks all meek, tucking his face behind white wings, curving a shoulder up.

Jesus. He’s good.

“God, no, I could eat you alive right now. Just wish there was a bit more skin showin’.”

Watching this interaction, Pat feels more out of depth now than any other point in the mission so far, like he doesn’t know a damn person in this room. 

And maybe he doesn’t, not right now at least. Brian seems real fucking deep into character to be absent of any nervous energy while Pat’s own body is tense. Pat has to remember, this is just another day of Brian’s life. Facades and caricatures are as real as anything else in life when you live a fuckin' performance.

Brian titters flirtily while the man fusses over Brian’s stocking straps and tugs his panties lower on his hips, the Duke entirely ignoring the others' presence now. What the fuck is going on.

Unable to stop the bitter feeling crawling up his throat, Pat snaps, “I’m not here to pay for sloppy seconds.” The Duke’s creeping hands come to a halt.

The Duke, for some reason, seems delighted by Pat’s comment, flashing an amused grin as he backs off. Brian, however, finally breaks character for a second, actually flinching at the words.

Pat is distracted by the Duchess’s quick movement, leaning forward to snatch the vial out of her husband's hand. She presents it to Pat, reluctance barely visible under her composure. 

“Of course, go ahead and do the honors.”

Looking at the syrup, then back up at Brian, Pat thankfully only takes a moment to realize what she means. 

The snowy wings, the meringue puffs of fabric, the cloven-hooved heels. Pat is reminded of the sacrificial lambs back at the church, how he had wept when he was forced to immolate one at the altar, one that he used to bottle-feed.

_ Brian _ is supposed to be the party favor, a chimera of innocence ripe for the slaughter.

All that’s left to do is stain that pretty white with red.

The Duke and Duchess’ cat-eyed stares stay fixed on Pat, the former lazily simpering while the latter just looks sharp and irritable. Pat gestures at the duke with the vial in a sort of _ cheers _ fashion before turning to Brian.

“Apollo.” Pat commands gruffly, uncapping the cork with his teeth. Pat would’ve much preferred being compromised by this mystery concoction than drugging up Brian. How is he supposed to give-

Brian answers that for him as he settles on his knees in front of Pat, parting his mouth and flattening his tongue against the plush of his lower lip. His eyes flick up to Pat’s trustingly, without a trace of fear or discomfort. Fuck.

Forcing on a twisted smile, Pat drizzles half of the vial into his waiting mouth, Brian’s hot breath ghosting over his lower stomach in shaky puffs. Pat can feel the others’ eyes burning into them.

“Always taking it so pretty,” Pat praises lowly, earning an encouraging look from Brian as he licks his lips and swallows.

Pat re-corks the vial and slips it into his pocket before tugging Brian up off the floor, wrapping an arm easily around Brian’s waist. He makes his hand a claw, scraping down Brian’s curves posessively.

Trying for impatient instead of contrite, Pat casts a glance at the Duke and bites out, “I hope he’s lucid enough to get us to the bathhouse.”

Tucking himself against Pat, chest to chest, Brian smiles. His mouth, a gash of red against his skin, wavers only now, face hidden from the Duke and Duchess. 

Brian says, “Not to worry, baby. I’ve got about ten ‘till I’m a goner.” 

To anyone else, Brian’s words sound as silky and sexy as before, but Pat can feel a tremor of nerves in Brian’s voice as it reverberates against Pat’s rib cage. 

Pat doesn’t tear his eyes away from Brian, ignoring the Duke and Duchess as he turns to leave. 

“Excuse us.” Pat growls out as they depart, letting Brian steer them away, still connected by Pat’s grip around his waist.

Once they’re alone in some poorly lit hallway, Brian stays within Pat’s hold, the two of them walking slowly like some drunken, four-legged beast. 

“Hey, you,” Brian breaks the silence, smiling into the dark.

“Hey yourself,” Pat tries to return his light tone and fails, too focused on the increasing wobble in Brian’s gait. 

Pat bites his lip and looks back up, fixing his gaze on the end of the hall. “That was weird as hell.” 

Brian hums. “They’re just like that sometimes. Did they say anything unusual to you?”

Pat laughs, “Uh, yeah, everything they said was unusual.” He starts, “The Duke said you-” then thinks better of it. None of that matters now, not to Pat. There’s no point rehashing things that’ll just upset Brian, who’s got enough to deal with right now.

“He said what?” Brian leans more of his weight against Pat’s side, dipping his head towards Pat’s. In an attempt to sober himself, Pat sucks in a lungful of air but only ends up gulping down Brian’s breath, who’s sighing out syrup-sweet and warm and all-too-close to Pat. 

“A bunch of gross, scumbag shit. I can’t wait to fuck him over,” Pat answers.

A laugh warbles out of Brian, a bit slurred around the edges. His voice comes out resentful-amused, “Me too.”

They pass a corridor of closed doors and round a corner, Pat stretching his free arm out to run along the walls. “Are- are you going to be okay?”

Brian sounds resigned, “Yeah, I’ve had this blend before. ‘M sorry you have to deal with me like this.”

A disquieting pang of guilt. “I don’t mind, Brian. Besides, it’s my fault he-”

“It’s no one's fault.” Brian concedes dismissively. They come to an intersection of three corridors, moonlight filtering in through the windows. 

“I’m not gonna be out cold, just uh- spacey and weird. It’s really not that bad. I’ll be high as a kite soon enough, but at least I get to take a nice bath.”

Pat stifles his concern and huffs a laugh, “Is this bathhouse really all that?”

Instead of answering, Brian tries to direct them towards the left corridor, his legs giving out beneath him as he staggers forward. Pat surges forward to soften Brian’s stumble, but this just ends up with two of them collapsing into the wall. Pat finds himself caging Brian against the wall, trying to hold him at the shoulders to keep Brian pinned upright. Like an unsteady foal, Brian’s legs splay awkwardly as if he’d lost control over them, high heels throwing off his balance. 

Worried, Pat shifts Brian's weight and tries to check his expression for any pain, but Brian’s got his head tucked into his shoulder, shaking with a low noise. After a moment, Pat realizes Brian’s giggling- uncontrollably at that. Pat fits a hand under Brian’s jaw to gently tilt his face into view, chuckling at the other’s hysterics. 

Brian fixes Pat with a captivating look, eyes half-lidded and a bit glassy. “Mm. I like that,” he murmurs deliriously, leaning into Pat’s touch. 

Pat reluctantly withdraws his hand, standing up and hoisting Brian upright with him, the other following along easily. “Hey. Hey, jelly-legs.” Pat tucks Brian against his side, “I’m gonna carry you now, okay?”

Brian blinks, his face vacant now, “Alrighty. We’re almost there.”

The Duke was right about syrup making Brian _ limp- _that or Brian’s staying very still to be considerate- because he feels like dead-weight in Pat’s arms. It’s a bit unsettling, but Pat hopes it means Brian is at least comfortable.

They make it to the bathhouse without further incident, Brian gathered in Pat’s arms bridal-style, wide eyes looking a little distant, his breathing slow and calm.

Pat gapes when he appraises the room. Brian smiles, “What did I tell you?”

The bathhouse really is all that, as it turns out. It’s a large, dimly lit room, with a wooden deck lining the outskirts, benches and sauna heaters scattered throughout. The rest of the floor is covered in a shallow layer of steaming water, petal-filled and cloudy with some perfumed concoction. White plaster arches erupt out of the water, sheer curtains cascading down from them to section the pool into private corners. 

Pat sets Brian down on one of the benches and starts undoing the buckles along the back of his heels without a second thought. This strikes Pat as an oddly intimate thing for him to do, undressing Brian instinctively- without any selfish intention. 

Above him, Brian strips out of his neck-piece and top, casting them aside in a pile next to him, then shoos Pat away from his legs. Pat sits back on his haunches and uncertainly unbuttons his own shirt, watching Brian fumble with the clasps of his garters with great difficulty. “Brian, let me help.” Pat says firmly.

“Fine.” Brian leans back against the wall defeatedly. The humidity of the room is smudging his makeup. “Although the best help would be making sure I don’t drown in there.”

When the two of them are both stripped down to their underwear, Pat scoops Brian up again and heads towards the water. Pat can’t tell if Brian knows he’s doing this, but he won’t stop staring at Pat’s chest, laser-focused on the black inked skin.

Bemused, Pat coughs, “I can see why this is such an expensive amenity.”

Brian hums happily as they submerge in the hot water, finger still tracing the large snake that snarls up Pat’s rib cage and coils towards the moon at his sternum. Pat hopes he can pass of the flush in his cheeks as a result of the sauna. He floats into a curtained-off section and sets Brian against the ledge, where a bench runs along the wall of the pool. 

Tension seeps out of Pat’s muscles as he sinks into the water. It’s- nice. Relaxing, even- but Pat keeps a close eye on Brian, in case he wasn’t joking about the drowning thing.

“Why were you at my last performance?” Brian asks, idly scooping up handfuls of water, draining them until only pink petals remain clinging to his palms. Pat watches him silently for a moment, thinking of what to say.

“I wanted to see you.” The truth, apparently. The steam gathering in their canopy is a bit dizzying.

Surprisingly, Brian says nothing in response, just lets a pleased smile tug across his face. He blinks, gets that distant look in his eyes again, and reaches an arm out to Pat.

“Lemme wash your hair.”

Pat flounders at the request, then furrows his brow. 

“Brian. You should really take it easy.”

Brian’s face is blanked in that glazed, faraway look. “Pat.” He parrots, “I’ve done much more physically demanding things on this stuff.” There’s no joking lilt in his voice, just cheerful detachment. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“‘M more than alright. You only gave me half a dose anyways.” Brian breathes in, exhales, some sort of relief passing over his face. “It’s not good to do it a lot, though, because it becomes the only way you ever want to be.”

Pat drifts closer, still unsettled, “What is it like?”

Brian laughs, like Pat’s being silly for worrying. After a beat of quiet, Pat thinks Brian won’t reply.

Brian pipes up again, eyes drifting closed for a second. “It’s like- I’m separate from myself. Sometimes I forget to worry, or feel angry or happy. Sometimes I can’t feel anything. It’s peaceful.”

Pat swallows an overwhelming mix of emotions. Unable to think of anything to say to that, Pat just turns around obediently and lets Brian plunge his hands into his hair.

They’re silent for a while, Brian’s hands contentedly raking through Pat’s hair, then down the nape of his neck, where Pat has the Polygon symbol tattooed, then tracing absentmindedly at the scar tissue on his back. Pat can only close his eyes and try not to tremble under each light touch. 

Brian’s voice drifts behind him.

“Rowan said none of the doves know when the harvest is. They just pick when someone tells ‘em to.”

Slipping out of his reverie, Pat’s eyes flick open. 

“What?”

“Their sense of time is distorted. I don’t think they even know what month we’re in.” 

Pat turns to look at Brian. “Well, shit. How’re we gonna-”

“The Duke is the only one that knows,” Brian’s busying himself with the petals again, corralling a pool of them on the surface with his arms. “See, now that he’s back I’m gonna be taking more calls from him. And he tends to vent about business and whatever- the only thing we gotta work around is remembering what he tells me.”

Realization washes over Pat, leaving him wretched and raw.

“You’re not gonna-”

“The shit he doses me up with kinda fucks with my memory,” Brian continues, even-tempered.

“Brian, I’m not going to let you do that for the mission.” The words whip harshly out of Pat.

Unworried, Brian replies, “Well. He does it no matter what. We might as well get something out of it.” He levels Pat with an unflinching stare.

Struggling for how to respond, Pat simply settles on snarling, “I want to kill him.”

Brian laughs humorlessly, “So impatient!”

It wrongfoots Pat, this whole nauseating idea, but Brian seems literally incapable of caring right now.

Brian breaks Pat’s stunned silence. “We’ll get our chance at revenge. Just let the others know and they can figure out how to bug me when I see him next. If you have a problem with the plan, take it up with Simone.”

Steam winds around them, Brian still surprisingly soft-looking with his stained lips and dampened curls. It’s always a little unexpected when Brian’s conviction overtakes him like this, unyielding and ferocious. 

There’s something both awful and magnetic about it. Pat’s aching to lean over and swallow Brian’s harshness, to take a bit of that fire and let it burn in his own chest. Still, Pat understands that after all he’s been through, Brian’s allowed to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I would love to hear what y'all think of this chapter, please let me know with a comment!
> 
> The song in this one happens to be. another mitski song. I'm sorry I didn't realize I was just writing about her discography ok anyways its Once More To See You and it makes me yearn.  
The first performance outfit is inspired by Ezra miller's beautiful playboy shoot ;0


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I know it has been a while since I've last updated, life stuff has been a lot and getting back in the groove of writing wasn't easy.(not to mention the polygon tag got filled with a ton of amazing works that I had to read lol)  
I'm glad I came back to it though, reading comments from y'all brings me a lot of happiness and validation when I started this as a sort of creative outlet/escape. 
> 
> this chapter also took a while because it deals with some difficult subject matter, so beware there's dubious consent, drugged sex (neither of these physically described), verbal abuse, some sexually explicit language, mentions of blood. I tried to handle it sensitively and not get too blue about things, so I hope it comes across alright.
> 
> Also! I'm going to shamelessly plug the playlists I've made for this fic series, most are on Spotify right now but I'll update this with youtube too if y'all want
> 
> Brian playlist: [ bird bones (spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2qukshD74tXKyQ2BuGFzsf?si=diDxWMNwQI2FQ_c1LwHw9A) [ bird bones (youtube)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWqvp4zMC0rNA0sUSpVdXHr3TgMWTMbDS)
> 
> Pat playlist: [pugilist (spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5BbDhykLGuBKMTNI1knoyr?si=eX8xIw4xTMCSW5gZ1ctxIg)
> 
> Brian/Pat playlist: [fair is a weather condition (spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1aWcApFHQjpBacWFLTyuNe?si=96w5dfVbSMig8B75BEykMA)
> 
> Duchess/Duke/Brian dynamic playlist: [tear catcher and golden chain (spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/64X1dyy0BZwotD6yrx63G2?si=93I-CDlbQtW7do8RbQ6_Fg) [tear catcher and golden chain (youtube)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWqvp4zMC0rPSlVMFEJmV53pi6StKFkgb)
> 
> enjoy!

Pat knows he’s being an asshole tonight, more than usual at least, sulking grouchily on the fringes of the campfire circle and snapping whenever prompted. But- fucking- who _ cares _ if he’s being an asshole, he thinks its at the very least warranted. Pat’s still pissed that everyone else was on board with Brian’s idea to seduce the stupid intel out of that _ dickbag _while drugged up. 

And it’s impossible not to keep thinking back to his last visit, how the syrup made Brian more spacey as the night wore on after he’d told Pat his plan. Spaced out enough for Brian to forget who Pat was, even when sat Pat’s lap, facing him, giggling as he tried to dip around Pat’s barred arms to mouth at the black lines across his chest. His hazey eyes were what tipped Pat off, sure, but Pat knew Brian didn’t realize whose lap he was in based on Pat’s ever present mantra that _ no one like Brian would ever willingly do this with Pat _. Right?

God, he hates following that train of thought because of how it ends up stoking a hot little flame in his chest, hopeful and wanting despite his doubts. Love isn’t really made for the cynical, is it?

Pat flicks a glance over from where he’s sprawled out in a brokedy lawn chair, sagging dangerously close to the ground. “Is there a reason y’all are smoking out of garbage?”

He’s answered by a long gurgling noise, Jenna’s fringe of hair whipping back from the gravity bong Clayton had rigged at her behest.

“Jeff broke our last bong when we were wrestling,” she blows smoke out of her nose like a dragon, looking smugly at Jeff, “_ And _I still won!”

Jeff squawks indignantly, “You _ threw _ me at it!” He mopes, snapping twigs in half and chucking them into the fire, “If anything, Jenna broke the bong with my poor body.” 

From his perch on the bumper of a truck, Clayton seems to have heard enough. Clayton calmly plucks the gravity bong from Jenna, hands it off to Pat, to his confusion, then tackles her to the ground.

Jeff whoops in delight as the two scuffle in the dirt, urging Clayton to avenge him, while Pat just shakes his head and reluctantly readies a bowl atop the grody-ass jug. 

Allegra returns from where she’d wandered off to bed a guy she’d met on the outskirts of the district that afternoon. Seeing the scene, Allegra takes it as her cue to jump into the fray. Pat can’t determine which side Legs is fighting for- it’s quite possible that she isn’t choosing one. Karen, curled up close to the fire pit, eventually yells at being woken up and kicks annoyedly out of her sleeping bag to find a quiet car to sleep in. 

Karen, at the very least, has been rightfully downtrodden since everyone decided they should go along with Brian’s whole self-sacrificial idea. Pat appreciates it, that even if she’s never met him, Karen has the decency to show her dislike at putting Brian in harm’s way.

Long shadows emanate from the roaring campfire, painting the caravan vehicles that circle the campground in black and orange, boxy metallic tigers. Pat spits out some bong water that had made its way into his mouth- _ gross _ \- right as a sharp “Ow- _ uncle _!” peels out of Jenna.

Clayton has surrendered Jenna from his grasp, winded from where Allegra’s knee caught him, while Allegra pins Jenna by the thighs, making no move to get up but seeming satisfied. Jenna’s shuffled her torso upright but she’s got her head tilted back, pinching her nose.

“That’s like the third we’ve gone through in a month.” Clayton offers reasonably, deeming an apology unnecessary.

“Fuck _ me _\- okay, okay! Sorry about the bong, Clay, but Pat can get a replacement from his boyfriend, easy!”

Pat’s already mounting irritation flares at that, but Jenna has already taken her lumps for the night, a stream of blood dripping from her nostril down into her wry smirk.

He’s distracted from the flashes of red in Jenna’s teeth when Clayton turns and raises an brow at Pat, as if daring him to deny the comment about Brian, stone-faced but clearly enjoying Pat’s uncomfortable squirm. How did this end up with _ Pat _ being ganged up on?

Pat swallows, trying not to flush under Clayton’s stare and grumbles half-heartedly, “Yeah, yeah, fuck you guys. Keep it up and you’ll be smoking out of this piece of shit ‘till we get to homebase.” 

Allegra snickers, then stops abruptly and turns to Jenna with a screech. “You seriously broke the last one?” Clayton, with smears of Jenna’s blood on his shirt sleeve, claps a hand on Pat’s shoulder with a knowing smile before Pat stalks away to find Simone. She’s no doubt elbows deep in sorting out what Brian has smuggled from the brothel.

In the dim light of the lantern hung from the roof of one of the vans, Simone rifles through the duffle bags Pat had brought back. He plops down next to her, Simone barely acknowledging his appearance. Impatient, Pat interrupts the nonsensical song Simone’s mumbling as she works.

“I’m gonna have to ask Brian to pack a bong next time.”

She hefts a zipped duffle back into the van and starts on the next one, counting how many menstrual cloths they packed for those who needed more back at homebase. 

“Who broke it?” Simone’s fine voice barely cloaks her eagerness with disinterest.

“Jenna. Clay already knocked some sense into her.”

“Oh, good.” Simone hums, clearly disappointed to have missed out on a chance to tussle. 

Pat picks at a scab on his leg, sighing as he lets the quiet of the night stir up restless thoughts. He could go back to the brothel tonight, Pat’s pretty sure there’s no closing time at that place. Just to be able to know Brian’s safe and content instead of at the whims of some stranger or worse. Just to see Brian at all, really. 

But Pat knows if he goes he’ll have to give Brian the bugging device Jenna and Clayton had made. A literal bug- Pat wishes Jeff knew the word _ subtlety, _ having turned the device into one of a pair of scarab beetle earrings, lovingly cloaking them with painted bits of soda can tabs and embedded rhinestones for eyes. The cute fuckers sit in a rusted altoid tin in his pocket, resentfully reminding Pat of their approaching usage.

An exaggerated gasp escapes Simone as she unzips a smaller bag in front of her.

“What?” Pat whips around to see what Simone’s looking at.

“God, bless that perfect creature,” she mutters to herself happily, turning a shiny tube of lipstick over in her hands. “This was my favorite shade- I can’t believe he remembered.” Simone gingerly unscrews the tube and dabs some on her lips before continuing to dig through the bag. 

With a curious noise, Simone reaches into the pockets of one and produces a couple pen-sized objects, then cackles _ “Saint patron de la petite mort!” _

Pat blinks. “_ Anglais s'il vous plait _.”

Simone’s shark-smile widens, “Look at this,” she picks out one of the slender things and clicks the button on its end. The object vibrates noisily.

“Brian’s our darling angel of small death.”

Pat can only groan out “_ Simone _,” exasperatedly and cover his reddened face in response.

“Mama’s keeping this one.” She stuffs the fanciest looking vibrator into the fold of her skirt, where she’d claimed some trinkets and books. Then Simone tosses one to Pat, to his chagrin, claiming he can "take the stick out of his ass and replace it with this._ " _

Pat looks at the vibrator in his hands and then back at Simone, temper flaring up bitter and sudden as he chucks it back into the duffel. 

“Am I the only one who’s taking this seriously? How are all of you so eager to just relax and agree ‘_yeah, let’s send Brian into the lion’s den for a couple extra crates of weed!’ _Not to fuckin’ rain on everyone’s parade but there’s other shit to worry about than _drugs and fucking_._” _Pat hates how petty and prude he sounds but. “Jonah's gonna kill us. _Laura’s_ gonna kill us.”

Simone seems to be in good patience tonight, staring at him like she’s waiting for him to finish throwing a tantrum instead of outright smacking Pat for getting up in her face.

“_ Patrice _ , I know you’re pissed, but what you’re worried about is centered precisely around _ drugs and fucking _,” Simone snarks calmly. “You know that Duke’s gonna fuck him up either way? That he’s been doing this for years already? That I’ve had to sit and watch it happen over and over again?”

Something weary has crept into Simone’s voice, a tired ache not dissimilar to dragging a finger over a scar, one that’s old enough to have healed over out of necessity but the physical memory still winces with phantom pain. 

It’s gone when she speaks again, tugging the dark knot of her hair loose from its bun. “The thing is, I know that you know all this already. You’re practical enough. In the end, it comes down to Brian being able to reclaim the situation he’s been in- and will be _ stuck _in for the time being- in a way that he finds satisfactory.”

Pat falters at the truth in this but doesn’t let his scowl budge. 

“You’re right about Laura though,” Simone concedes, flicking her eyes low, “God, I hope she forgives us.” She smooths her hands over her knees, pinky catching at a rip in her jeans, “Forgives me.” 

Pat can’t help but to bump his shoulder into hers and leave it there, a silent attempt at comfort. Simone lets him stay there for a moment before she continues picking through the cargo, “Remember when we talked about how it’s not good to get too close with missions?”

Pat opens his mouth to protest, to hide the panic flickering up his throat at being called out, at being told he’s gotten in way over his head.

Simone shushes him before he can even begin, “It’s not bad to care, remember? Maybe just figure out your feelings before you project your guilt onto us.”

Immediately, Pat feels the stubborn remnants of his anger fizzle out. It’s not fair, really, for Pat to be dumping all of his man-pain on Simone. And the others too, he knows they’re making the best of the situation. They really did try to explore other options, but in the end when it was up to Simone- what Brian wants, Brian gets. It’s hard to remember sometimes that Pat’s level of shame is higher than the rest, more persistent, to say the least. 

It’s hard to remember until whenever the caravan stops at some random outpost and Pat catches a face- faces, occasionally- that are somewhat familiar, and Pat’s left wondering if he’s ever known them. If he’s ever hurt them, following orders from the church, or fighting for his meals in the ring. Seen that face flinch with fear. 

Pat’s always asking himself if things are his fault, and if he’s _ really _ a better person now if he’s not doing everything he can to bear the weight of others on his shoulders. 

And Brian- Pat wants to be someone that Brian could lean on, if he ever needs someone. God knows Brian tries to carry everything by himself.

A few moments pass before Pat tries speaking again. Abashed, he mutters, “I’ve really got to sort my shit out, don’t I?”

“A ‘sorry for being a dick’ would be cool too.” Simone says not unkindly, presses the vibrator back in his hands and stands, gathering her skirtful of treasures to her lap.

“Sorry for being a dick.” Pat repeats without derison, apologetically shoving the vibrator into his back pocket as he does.

The two of them burst out in laughter, Simone biting the lipstick off of her bottom lip, watching Pat half-groan half-chuckle and scrub a hand over his face.

___

Pat’s quieter today when he comes to see Brian. His greeting smile isn’t so shy as it used to be, like Pat’s forgotten to be reserved now, giving Brian that unrestrained grin. Brian supposes he’s committed to the task of melting Brian’s heart.

He honestly expected worse, for Pat to be more closed off and gruff, knowing that Pat isn’t a fan of what Brian less-suggested-more-so-demanded in the bath house. Brian wouldn’t mind Pat’s stubbornness, because at least it would mean that the others had agreed. Strangely, Pat doesn’t scowl and sulk, but he doesn’t bring it up either.

So if the back and forth is a bit subdued, Brian is okay with that. Brian can let it be, he can sit and fill the room with music. It’s just- there’s already a lot that Brian’s asked for, and a lot of reasons why it’s better that for now, Brian should slow his roll, be careful with Pat, let the strange tension between them crackle un-ignited until the mission succeeds. He can resist from jabbering and prodding Pat into playing guitar or singing (and Brain _ knows _Pat must’ve learned to at the church).

_ Well it's Saturday night, you're all dressed up in blue _

_ I been watching you awhile- maybe you been watching me too _

_ So somebody ran out, left somebody's heart in a mess _

_ Well if you're looking for love, honey, I'm tougher than the rest... _

The quiet isn’t exactly tense, more sleepy than anything, the two of them alone in the sun-bleached calm of Brian’s favorite room. This room lets them see the world outside the brothel, its enormous glass-pane windows arching up from floor towards the ceiling, cracked open to let in the warm breeze from outside. The air is fresher here than anywhere else in the stuffy brothel halls.

Pat’s crouched across from Brian, sat among a cluster of pillows Pat had dragged over from the bed to the window sill as soon as he saw Brian staring pained-hopeful out at the desert. Earlier, Brian nabbed a guitar from the storage room backstage so that he’d have something to do with his pent-up energy, somewhere to put his hands when Brian wasn’t sure if he could put them all over Pat, per usual. The problem is even now, the afternoon light warms the pale planes of Pat’s face, his dark swoop of hair flopping over one eye to his jaw, and he looks as touchable as ever.

_ ...some girls they want a handsome Dan _

_ or some good-lookin' Joe on their arm _

_ some girls like a sweet-talkin' Romeo... _

Pat listens to the song intently- Brian would be embarrassed if he weren’t so used to performing under close attention, watching the edges of Pat’s eyes crinkle when Brian plays up the lyrics about different johns. Brian falters on the chords a bit here, heart dipping for a moment, then looking back up at Pat tentatively.

_ ...well, 'round here, baby _

_ I learned you get what you can get _

_ so if you're rough enough for love _

_ honey, I'm tougher than the rest _

_ The road is dark _

_ and it's a thin thin line _

_ but I want you to know I'll walk it for you anytime _

_ maybe your other boyfriends _

_ couldn't pass the test _

_ well if you're rough and ready for love _

_ honey, I'm tougher than the rest... _

The sharp watchfulness in Pat’s eyes turns into something soft under Brian’s intentional stare, glittering thoughtfully as he seems to decide on something. Brian slows his strumming to a stop and quirks an eyebrow when Pat digs out a mint tin from his pocket. He doesn’t hand it over, just runs a thumb over the dented metal and looks at Brian, mouth twisted up like it gets when Pat doesn’t know how to phrase something.

“Can you trust that I know my own limits?” Brian asks, (_ do you trust me? do you see me?) _words laying bare what Pat can’t bring himself to say. 

A breath rushes out of Pat, honesty fissuring through the tight reluctance in his voice when he says, “I trust you. I know you’re strong enough, capable. It doesn’t mean that I like putting you in this position.”

The tin holds a pair of scarab earrings, delicately engineered but big and bold enough to be flashy. The craftsmanship that went into these is- Brian’s at a loss for words, really, with each discovery of how skilled and wonderful the people at Polygon are.

“One’s a microphone, the other’s a speaker, in case we ever need to call you from camp or vice versa,” Pat explains.

“Aw shucks, should I be lucky enough to get a ring from you?” The half-made flirt slips out of Brian, losing its silliness as he remains caught up in the glossy green shine of the earrings.

“I’d call you, if you like.” Pat answers seriously, mouth curled up in a small smile. Brian relaxes slightly, the awkward wariness between them having dissolved. Pat moves to help Brian put the earrings on, long fingers rolling over each lobe before gentling to guide each scarab into place. This close, Brian can see the long lashes rimming the bottom of Pat’s eyes, dark brows furrowing with concentration. 

“Look at you,” Brian breathes, careful not to shake them out of the moment, “You’re lucky you’re a free man, that pretty face would be the talk of the town if you were a dove.”

Pat makes a face at being called pretty, some mix of bewilderment and incredulity, and secures the earring backings. 

“Just sayin’.” Brian says, apparently deciding to throw any self-restraint out the window, “If you had a wanted poster, I’d keep it and ask for an autograph.” 

“Mm, didn’t know greasy dudes were what’s hot these days,” Pat deflects easily, seeming to find him absurd judging by how the corners of his mouth twitch.

“I mean it– I’d kill to put some liner on those big dark eyes,” Brian fits a gentle thumb under the inner corner of his eye, unhindered by Pat’s glasses today. Then, when Pat doesn’t flinch under his touch, he dips into the hollow above Pat’s jaw, hums. “And those cheekbones- who gave you the right to look like that?”

“_ Brian _.” Pat huffs a breathy chuckle, the warning in his tone rendered useless by the pink flush to his cheeks. Brian just shrugs and smiles, poking his tongue out between his teeth.

When he moves back out of Brian’s space, Pat’s hand brushes down the slope of Brian’s jugular to where his neck meets his shoulder, absentmindedly tugging his upturned necklace until the clasp is resting back on Brian’s nape.

Brian brings his hands up to fidget with the earrings, running his fingertips over the metal and twisting them, memorizing the shape. Rocking forward, Brian sing-songs a couple of earnest _ thank yous _ after a moment of restlessness, realizing what the earrings mean.

“Why’re you thanking me?” scoffs Pat.

“I mean, thank you for trusting me to handle myself. I know you’re- I think you like to be in control, to do everything yourself so you can protect-” Brian stops, when Pat stares at him like he’s being ridiculous, _ pot-meet-kettle _ written all over his expression. 

“-Not that I’m guilt-free of doing the same!” Brian amends, rubbing a sheepish hand across the back of his neck, “I’m just glad you don’t think I’m some hapless drab.”

Now Pat fixes Brian with a look that undeniably says _ you’re ridiculous _. Stubborn, Brian matches his expression.

Pat laughs wryly, “What, you think I see you as some damsel in distress, _ just _ because I’ve got a _ tiny _ hero-complex?”

“Well shit, with the way you act sometimes, I feel like one!” Brian says, does an exaggerated fainting motion and collapses into Pat.

Pat _ hmphs _ begrudgingly to cover his smile, leans over carefully to pull the guitar towards Brian without disturbing him from his position. They’re back to normal, just two, normal friends who do totally normal things like this, Brian thinks to himself, ignoring how absurd it is to pretend like he’s even _ trying _ to resist Pat. Accepting the guitar graciously, Brian wiggles so the pins on Pat’s leather jacket don’t jab into his back and resumes playing once he’s comfortable.

Pensive once more, Pat grumbles lowly into Brian’s hair after a few beats, “You promise to be careful?”

“I promise.”

_ ...well it ain't no secret, _

_ I've been around a time or two _

_ well I don't know, babe, maybe you've been around too _

_ well there's another dance _

_ all you gotta do is say yes _

_ and if you're rough and ready for love, honey I'm tougher than the rest _

_ If you're rough enough for love, baby I'm tougher than the rest. _

_________

It takes a while for Pat to overcome the horrid feeling swirling around his gut to ask Jenna how the caravan will know when Brian’s with the Duke. It’s clear that Jenna didn’t want to tell Pat, probably preferring he doesn’t know.

Her apologetic smile is mild, admitting that they have a live feed of Brian’s audio playing on one of the radios they hooked up to the scarabs and they’re taking turns monitoring in shifts, her and Clayton. Jenna doesn’t ask Pat to take a shift, and for a moment he’s torn between wanting to help or staying away in consideration of Brian’s privacy.

Truthfully, it’s for his own sake when Pat lets it go unsaid that he won’t go near the radio until necessary. Pat knows- and the others know it too- that if he hears what happens to Brian throughout the day, he’d march straight to the brothel and do something stupid.

It’s that evening, when Clayton pokes his head out from the van full of tech gear and calls for Simone. Everyone else just finished dinner, scraping their plates clean over the fire and knocking back moonshine. Pat barely ate, didn’t drink, because the pit in his stomach was convinced it was going to happen tonight. 

Simone emerges from where she’s curled up with Jenna, the two of them strung up in a hammock between the cars. Her eyes scan until they land on Pat’s and she tilts her head for him to come with. For a moment, Pat wants to shake his head no, dread weighing him down. He doesn’t _ need _ to be in there, Clayton or Simone could relay what happens instead. But he sees the distress in Simone’s eyes and realizes that she’s asking for him to be there for her sake.

In the van, Pat recognizes the Duke’s voice sneering over the radio.

“-been too long since I’ve gotten you to myself, hm? Business has been such a fuckin’ pain.”

A gasp gets smothered before he continues, “I see you’ve been put to work, I haven’t even mixed up the hard hitting stuff and you’re already loose.”

Pat grits his teeth, casts a glance at Simone and finds her expressionless, unphased. Clayton’s hunched over in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, face turned away. He and Jenna have had to listen to shit like this for a full day now.

The radio crackles when Brian huffs out a strangled laugh, “It’s just been too long- ah- since we last-” sucks a breath in, yelps a moan so pornographic and loud that it could only sound real coming from Brian, “shit, I missed you, I can’t wait to-”

“God, you’re filthy, already begging for it. I thought that new guy of yours was satisfactory,” the Duke says, “but you need to be fucked by someone who really knows what you are.”

Brain doesn’t respond, just pants and pants. Simone grips Pat’s hand in her own, crushingly tight. 

“You told me he was a sentimental motherfucker but when I met him- anyone with a brain could clock that that’s not true. _ I _ could instantly tell he’s a lot like me, ‘cept you fucking fell for it all over again.” 

Pat’s rib cage peels with those words, and he bites the inside of his mouth ‘till he tastes blood. Tries to remind himself that he was playing a character, that the Duke met a different person.

A cruel laugh rings out, “You dumb-witted slut, you’ll throw yourself at any scumbag and think it’s love.”

“I needed you here to remind me-” A sob escapes Brian, spits out a _ yes, fuck, use me please _. Pat chokes out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, struck by how Brian plays along, even when being humiliated, he stays in character. He’s- he’s playing it safe, thank god, Brian’s being careful. 

“You shouldn’t’ve left me- hah- so long, you won’t leave like that soon, right?” 

“The sooner the better, that son of a bitch Brennan’s breathing down my neck. Sorry hon, the next shipment’s gonna be ready soon and I gotta make moves.” Duke hisses distractedly. 

“_ Already _ ?” Brian whines, petulant, “When’s harvest happening, you better not miss the next big performance- _ mmph- _”

“I’ll be around for the next time ‘Chessy holds that shindig of hers- _ fuck _\- The morning after I’ve gotta load up the harvest crates and head out, but I’ll be able to watch your little show.”

Simone sucks in a sharp breath, locks eyes with Clayton, then Pat. That means the harvest is in a few days- the Duchess is holding her next event this week.

“If you’re leaving so soon, let’s make up for that lost time then,” Brian whispers. “Fuck me like I need, like I’ve been needing.”

“That’s the spirit. Open your mouth, I’ve got something new for ya.” Brian gags on the other end and the Duke just laughs, delighted.

“There we go, you’ve been far too chatty. I’ve got a fun assortment tonight. After a moment, you won’t remember anything but how to be the little cockslut you are-”

Clayton reaches over and cuts off the radio signal, silence filling the van’s cabin in its absence. Simone pulls a notebook into her lap and jots down the info in her loopy scrawl. 

“Simone.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re getting everything out before the end of that performance.”

She nods at Pat, purses her lips. “I think that’s the best course of action.”

Wordlessly, Pat stands and leaves the van, snatching a metal bat someone had left rolled against the wall. They don’t follow him when Pat heads towards the junked-up stretch of dead cars and scrap metal.

When Pat’s finished smashing in the windows of a couple cars, chest heaving, bleeding a little from errant shards of glass, he finally lets the bat drop from his hands with a clatter and is silent.

_________

_ can barely feel the chains now even the pleasure’s dulled under the numbness teeth stained red with wine and thick syrup grinning cruelly down at him he can’t believe he drew such a noise from this man its sick to feel this sense of power isn’t it go limp comply it’s second nature lean forward lick into his mouth easy a hand gripping his jaw let it go slack allow the violet dollop drip onto his tongue what's one more dose what's one more time what’s one more long night _

_________

“Brian, can you hear me?”

Pat fiddles with some knobs until the staticky “Hey- yeah I can hear you now,” on the other end evens out. Maybe he should ask Clayton or Jenna to help, but they’re still asleep despite the overhead sun. Besides, Pat thinks he’s picked up enough to man the radio by himself.

Pat sits patiently, waiting for Brian to speak when he’s ready, to say what he called Pat for. Brian shivers on the other end of the connection.

“Where are you? You sound cold.” Pat says.

Brian sounds distant when he responds, but Pat can imagine the way his body wracks to sound so shaky. “I’m coming down from whatever he gave me last night. It’s a real doozy, but I’m just glad I stopped dry heaving.”

Pat feels something sharp pierce through him. Anger simmers under the cold, definitive way he spits, “That bastard’s gonna be sorry.”

Brian doesn’t respond to the seething promise, too tired. He just lets his silence, rare as it is, be an agreement.

“I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.” Decisive and absolute. “Harvest is happening around the next big performance.”

Brian draws in another breath, “Okay. A few more days.”

Pat can hear Brian’s hope, hidden somewhere in his subdued relief. Before Pat can rush into apologizing for everything, for this stupid plan and stupid situation, Brian speaks up again. 

“I just called to let you know I’m fine. I don’t want you to- after hearing all that-” he stops himself, seeming to know that it’s pointless to tell Pat not to worry. “For what it’s worth, I’ve grown to be. More than alright with those sort of nights. What happens and what he says- It’s not like, real to me. It’s a dream, or like, a performance. So it can’t hurt me. Does that make sense?”

Pat licks his lips, takes in the uncertainty in Brian’s voice. He’s- he’s worried about what Pat thinks of him now. 

“I understand. I’m glad you’re- okay,” Pat assures, hushed, heart in his throat. It’s hard, trying to find the words that would convince Brian that there’s nothing he could ever do to make Pat change his mind about him.

“Shit- I have to go-” there’s muffled sounds on the other end as Brian totters around.

Afraid of being hung up on, Pat hurriedly says, “I’ll come back soon. We’re almost at the end.”

Brian quirks into something lighter, a hint of a smile, “Can’t wait.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed reading, as always comments are appreciated <3. The song in this chapter is Tougher than the rest specifically the Angel Olsen [version](https://youtu.be/KjYrfLDJjwM)
> 
> The last two chapters are well on their way so hopefully this installment will come to a close soon!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've risen from the grave!  
Wildfire evacuations, family stuff and generally life alone has kept me from writing, but I was also really afraid to do these next two chapters. I'm always very scared to set something in stone and I started to feel like these chapters had to be perfect to publish 'cause I only get one chance to post them. But I started this because I loved this concept and while I felt the story ran away from me a bit, I had a great time diving back into this universe and just having fun. Also. Holy shit thank you for 100 kudos and 1500+ hits!
> 
> The last chapter is nearly finished for those of you who have said you want to read the completed thing in one go :)
> 
> A note for reading: Large sections of POV done in italics are set in the day before the heist, un-italicized POV's are the day of
> 
> I hope yall enjoy <3

_The bug earrings still come in handy, as it turns out, and the entire caravan’s already clamoring about making a pair for each person to facilitate missions without clunky walkie-talkies and radios. Jonah’s been using it to correspond with Simone before she has Pat to go over the plan with everyone._

_Pat can imagine that it’s funny to hear her voice coming out of a beetle now, the night before the performance, considering how long it’s been since these guys have spoken to her._

_In the hall, before crowding into Laura’s room, he does get a breadth of a moment alone with Brian. He looked okay when he first greeted Pat today, nothing betrayed the horrid comedown he must've gone through. Pat tries to stop the rush of anger the thought brings. He follows Jonah, Rowan and Laura as they file into the stooped door frame, but a light touch to his wrist stops him. Pat turns._

_“Glass?" Brian not so much asks but remarks._

_Reflexively, Pat glances down at the barely noticeable wounds along his arms. The thin jagged slashes and scattered punctures that are too strange-looking to pass off as random scrapes._

_When he jerks his gaze back up, mouth opening to mutter some excuse, Brian’s keen eyes catch his and he shakes his head imperceptibly. Don’t bullshit him._

_“Glass,” agrees Pat._

_It’s not the most illuminating answer but Brian is satisfied by its honesty. Pat thinks he’s about to get told how fucked that is when Brian stares at him for a long moment like he’s trying to read him. Instead-_

_“Should I kiss it better?”_

_Pat’s still trying to weigh the seriousness against the jokiness of the offer when Rowan calls out and tells them to quit wasting time. Brian’s mouth tilts up indecipherably and he lightly smooths his hands down both of Pat’s arms before leading him to join the others._

_They’re all sitting on Laura’s miscellaneous ottomans and rugs now, an hour or so having passed just by getting everyone on the same page with the most updated information. According to Jonah, there’s a lot of chaotic shifts and schedule changes that happen during big events like this._

_“Tomorrow’s going to be a looong fuckin’ night.” Allegra crackles over the radio when Pat finishes outlining the basics of the plan to the group._

_ Pat refrains at the last moment from gesturing in his awkward ‘reign it in guys’ motion that won’t be familiar to anyone in this room. His hands come together in one clap, then flounders before clearing his throat, gesturing to the map spread across Laura’s rug. Pat’s pretty sure he can hear Simone snickering on the other line._

_“Uh, alrighty, let’s piece it all together now. Jonah, you know the place best, if you will-?”_

_Jonah hums affirmatively, leans over the brothel floor plan he and Brian mapped out. “Ooh, wait-” Brian hurriedly shuffles around the pile of knick-knacks, each representing a key person. He warily eyes Pat, who had teased Brian earlier that this was an audio format to practically everyone else, and starts grumbling about the value of visual aids in when presenting something-_

_Casually, Jonah reaches over and smothers a meaty hand over Brian’s mouth and starts reciting the plan. He doesn’t even flinch when Brian, indignant, licks at his palm. _

_“So phase one, getting everyone into position. We’ll start around 7, giving us enough time before people start getting admitted as event guests rather than regular clients.”_

_ Brian wiggles out of Jonah’s grasp and sets Jeff (blue pencil sharpener) and Pat (brass bullet shell) at the entrance of the map. Jonah (rough chunk of agate) is stationed in the main saloon area._

_________

Jeff, feet kicked up on the table, carelessly tosses his umpteenth emptied mug over his shoulder into a pile far too big for it being only 7:30. The clumsy movement tips his chair back a smidge too far, Pat watching as Jeff is pushed off balance until he tilts over with a crash. 

Unmoving in his chair, Pat roughly toes Jeff with his boot and growls. “Fucking lightweight, I knew I shouldn’t have dragged your ass along.”

“Shuddup,” Jeff slurs from the floor, rolls up the sleeves of his flower-spattered shirt, “don’t make me come back up there and beat your ass-” he stops, hiccups. Pat smothers a laugh, seeing Jonah and another guard muscling their way through the clusters of other clients who arrived early.

“Everything alright over here, gentlemen?”

Pat scoffs, harsh, gestures at Jeff, “Does he look alright? Stupid motherfucker can’t get a grip on himself.”

The other guard tsks and stoops to drag Jeff upwards- until Jeff lurches over and gags like he’s about to be sick all over the guard’s shoes. 

“Oh- jesus.” the guard snaps annoyedly, shoving Jeff towards Jonah instead. “I am _not_ dealing with this.”

“And you expect me to?” Jonah scowls appropriately, holds Jeff at an arm's length. Staggering in Jonah’s hold, Jeff wiggles a limp hand and- yep- starts trying to crack Pat up. Jeff clumsily motions _You. Me_. then draws a shape mid-air and jabs a pointer finger through it. Oh. _Square up_.

The motion also looks, unintentionally, an awful lot like _up your ass_, and Pat huffs, trying to make his laugh sound exasperated. 

“I didn’t come out here to watch you two grunts hem and haw about it. Get out of here, I don’t give a fuck where you put ‘im.” Pat pointedly ignores Jeff’s persistent commitment to doing a goof, cups a hand over his mouth to light a cigarette. “Christ, I thought this place was high end.”

That gets the men moving, the other guard smirking at Jonah’s misfortune before stalking back to his post in the corner of the saloon. Jonah reluctantly slings Jeff’s arm around his shoulder before dragging him off. Jeff throws a peace sign over his shoulder, managing to catch his feet on every table leg he passes as he’s led away.

_________

_Brian pushes the pencil sharpener and agate towards the hallway that leads to the quarters where the doves that process the brothel drugs reside. “Jonah will take Jeff to where we dump the blackout clients- where the blackout doves are kept.” _

_Jeff cuts in over the radio, “Yeah, uh, question- if I’m going to be drinking are you sure I’ll be able to knock out all those doves by myself? Like- physically?”_

_Rowan, tucked next to Laura, scoots forward and moves her pawn (carved ivory button) to the same hallway on the map. Her thin voice is unusually lively, and Laura’s beaming at her like she’s never seen the kid so excited. _

_“I’ll be in there with Jeff. We’re not fighting them, just giving them more syrup until they’re out cold. These doves are always close to passed out. I usually give away my doses so they’re used to me showing up, and Jeff can pretend to be the usual drunk, desperate client that ends up in there.” It makes sense that the Duchess wouldn’t waste nice rooms on clients too wasted to spend money on doves._

_Brian adds Clayton and Allegra to the board, (a domino tile and a rabbit femur), pushes them to the back door that goes through the guards’ quarters. Jonah says “Nearing 8, all the guards will be in the main saloon, at the entrance to start checking guests in, or around the back perimeter.”_

_Simone hums. “It’s stupid, really, to exhaust all your security like that on wrangling drunk pervs.” She sounds pleased as punch about it._

_“Well. Yes,” Jonah amends, “but usually big events get rowdy, all personnel is needed to-” he sounds a bit defensive, being on security himself._

_“ -Especially when you’ve got a warehouse full of green. They should’ve made me a guard instead of a prostitute.” Simone adds. Pat would feel sorry for Jonah having to deal with the constant jabbering and interruptions that often accompanies caravan meetings- if Pat didn’t know Jonah’s most likely used to it with the company that he keeps._

_Jonah sighs. “Okay, yeah, it’s dumb but that oversight’s benefitting us. May I continue?”_

_The answering silence from the radio is taken as an agreement._

_“Clayton and Allegra will have to knock out-” _

_“-Physically,” Allegra cuts in pointedly, to which Jeff mutters a piqued “hey-!”. _

_“Physically,” Jonah parrots over the cross-talk, impatient, “knock out the guards back here so they can use the back door to make their way to here.” Jonah points past the drug-doves’ quarters where Rowan and Jeff are stationed to a deeper chamber. _

_“That leads to the warehouse Brian had spotted underwater,” Rowan explains, “I can lead the way. The crates of weed will be packed up to the right, ready for shipping out the next morning. The other side of the warehouse is dedicated to syrup and the other meds they make here. That section has all of the STD tests and antibiotics y’all want.”_

_Jonah nods, takes over again, “Brian’ll have to come out to the saloon and grab Pat. If people are around and listening, make up some excuse that doesn’t take too long. Since you have to get backstage near 8:30, you don’t want people having to poke around to find you for your costume change.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, something something quickie,” grins Brian. He adds himself (the engraved dove lighter- and doesn’t that just send a happy flutter up Pat’s throat) to the board and pushes his and Pat’s pawns to the entrance to the drug sector of the brothel. The halls form a T shape where one long chamber ends at the entrance, the other chamber that leads to the guard’s quarters running parallel to the entrance. _

_“While-” Brian interrupts himself, waving a hand, “phase two I guess, moving the drugs- Allegra and Clayton start taking crates out back, Pat and I will stand guard outside and be ready to cause a distraction if anyone comes near.” _

_________

They end up having to split the pair of scarab earrings, him and Pat, one for each of them so Simone’s not completely in the dark about what’s happening inside the brothel tonight. Brian wears the beetle that receives audio from the caravan’s radios. Pat, no ear piercings to speak of, has to pin the microphone beetle to the inside of his lapel. It’s not ideal- the plan requires the two of them to separate at different points- but Pat told him it was too short notice to whip up another pair and these are really just a cushion for if things get out of hand. 

The two of them lean against walls opposite to each other, blocking the chamber that runs perpendicular to the entrance of the drug sector. Pat keeps an eye out as Allegra and Clayton work behind them, lugging crates towards the back door of the guards’ quarters. 

The halls are already reverberating with music, the brothel starting to stir from its sleepiness into the lively bustle of preparations centering around the saloon area. The chamber they’re in is hung with an assortment of frameless mirrors, stretching from ceiling to floor throughout the entire hall, fragments of infinity pitching into the darkness where the hall turns to connect with the more central passages. In the distance, Brian can hear Jeff and Rowan talking, and Rowan seems to be saying more to a new person than he’d ever heard her say before. It sounds like she’s mainly poking fun at Jeff being a lightweight, but it’s progress.

Despite his cool demeanor, Brian can tell Pat’s on edge, his hands tugging absentmindedly at the wide leather belt at his hips. His chunky metal rings are gone tonight- instead, his hands are wrapped expertly in black bandages. That alone makes it almost obvious, if you’re paying attention to Pat’s hands (like Brian almost always is), that Pat was once some sort of pugilist. No rookie mistakes made here when the night calls for throwing some punches. Brian has no costume jewelry on yet, no jingling bangles or clunky necklaces, nothing to fidget with but a delicate sash that would definitely expose him if messed with, so he settles on shuffling his feet out till he’s toe to toe with Pat, their bodies forming a V in the narrow hallway. 

“We’re good, Pat. It’s good.” Brian says, despite knowing just as well as Pat that if someone comes around that corner, they’re going to have one _hell_ of a time trying to scare them off.

Pat flashes a quick smile, keeping his eyes fixed down the end of the hallway, but he lifts the toe of his boot to tap Brian’s sock-footed one in response. 

Pat looks good, _really_ good. He’s dressed up sharp and dark for tonight, shoulders looking broad under a military-style button up in twill. His pants match the black of his shirt, nicely fitting but loose enough to allow required movement. After a moment,

“You’re awful calm for this to be your first heist.” Pat drawls.

“You’re awful nervous for this to be your fiftieth.” Brian replies cheerfully.

“I doubt I’ve done fifty-”

“This is probably your fiftieth, Pat,” Clayton says evenly as he shuffles by. Allegra’s laugh rings out from the darkened entrance.

“Small robberies don’t count as heists.” Pat calls out as they disappear down the hall, leaving the reek of weed in their wake and Pat and Brian alone in the thump of far-off bass. Brian sighs and scoots a bit down the wall, the material of his loose dressing gown sliding against the mirror glass easily. He presses his hands behind him and feels the vibrating music in his fingertips, drums along to the beat. Brian tries to keep the taps light, less manic, while his mind overworks itself.

Pat’s voice comes eventually, almost knowing. “You’re going to miss nights like this, aren’t you?”

Brian huffs a breathy laugh, looking back up. “Yeah, you got me.” Pat’s still eyeing the end of the hall, too. When’d he get so good at reading him?

“Not just performing on stage though,” Brian adds, although that's what he'll miss the most, undoubtedly. “I guess I’ve been spoiled by all the lavish parties- the music and getting to dance with everyone.”

Pat finally does spare a glance to Brian at his wistfulness, and Brian stares right back. The mirror behind Pat reflects the one on Brian’s wall, fills the space behind the both of them with a glinting haze of red, glimpses of their reflections echoing through another hallway that exists only where the mirrors’ light kisses each other. 

In the mirror, Brian looks. Well, slutty as usual, he supposes, but seeing his own soft form and waifish face next to Pat, lean and razor-sharp and composed- he can’t deny how they look. Good. Together. Meant to be pressed shoulder to shoulder. Brian looks and looks and then Pat’s own eyes drift past Brian, takes in the image opposite of him as well. 

Brian gets the distinct feeling of forbiddenness, with how much he _wants_ it, looking back at Pat, looking at the two of them together. It’s almost hot to the touch, the way it makes him flinch back as if he’ll get burnt. _Not yet_, the image of them seems to say. Orpheus and Eurydice. Hold steady and don’t look back at each other, don’t get distracted by this helpless hope. Not until they emerge from the underworld.

“I think we’ll have time for one last dance before we go,” Pat says suddenly, quietly, his face turned back to watch for activity. Brian flounders for a moment, breaking out of his trance.

“_Pat_,” Brian beams, all too eager, “Are you asking me for a dance?”

If the other’s face were turned to him, Brian would be sure Pat’d look regretful, with the way he sputters out “I meant- there’s a chance for _you_ to- before we- I didn’t- I’m not a dancer, Brian.”

“Nonsense, anyone can,” Brian says, yawning. “You’re really going to make me dance my last _alone?"_

A beat passes and Pat doesn’t respond, just tilts his head, expression honing into a stone mask.

_“...Shit.”_

Then Brian hears it too. Faint footsteps echo in the distance, somewhere around the central passages. Brian’s heartbeat kicks into overtime when Pat launches himself at him, nearly barreling Brian over. Pat’s body cages Brian in, pinning him against the wall easily like he weighs nothing- talk about taking charge of the situation, _hoo_\- but Brian can’t see who’s coming to the end of the hall. Thinking quick, Brian lets out a moan, hopefully loud enough to alarm the others, then lets out another in surprise when Pat looms down and latches his mouth onto Brian’s neck. Like it’s _nothing_, drawing tender flesh into his mouth, _easy_, Pat’s tongue lathing hot over his skin before he sets a fierce bite. His mouth is almost enough to distract from how the rest of Pat is _shaking_, miles outside of his element.

Rolling with the scalding burst of shocked-delight, Brian loosely fists a hand into the dark spill of Pat’s hair. Brian squirms against the cold mirror, slipping without much purchase, and nearly knocks his head in his desperation to bare more of his neck. Brian, trying and failing for gentle encouragement, chants _“Yes, yes, yes_\- _mm_\- right there, mark me up, Pat.” 

A noise pulls out of Pat’s chest, caught between a laugh and a groan. Over Pat’s head, mussed from Brian’s fingers, Brian catches a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror opposite and nearly trills at the sight of Pat bent over, practically pinning Brian down with his teeth, his hands enfolding Brian’s silk-cloaked torso into his own, Brian utterly debauched and slight in comparison to Pat. _God_\- Brian’s previous nerves over possible (and now occurring) intrusion vanishes, foolishly, with the way the mirror fogs up around where Pat’s busying his mouth.

The footsteps have halted at the darkened end of the hall, the mystery intruder stopping to inspect the couple necking further down. There’s no sign of Allegra or Clayton traipsing along unknowingly, so that’s _grand_, amongst other things. As distracting as Pat is, lips and stubble dragging along Brian’s throat before nipping (the simmering heat of _oh god I’ve wanted this for so long_), Brian wants to know who has stumbled onto the scene. And how to get them to turn back around the way they came. 

When Pat draws back to gulp down a breath, Brian takes the split-second to twist, pushes off against the mirror and rolls Pat’s weight against himself, flipping them so Pat’s pressed against the wall. A pleased sound of surprise punches out of Pat at the shift, yielding underneath Brian. 

Repositioned, Brian casts a glance down the hall and makes out- a younger dove approaching. Thank god. Not a guard, certainly not the Duke. Relief flickers through Brian like the dove’s image through each mirror as they creep forward. They’re probably trying to sneak out some extra syrup amidst the commotion of event prep. Still. Brian imagines the scene that lies past Pat and him. A warehouse half-empty of its drugs, the doves that usually lurk around the syrup rooms like bats, all laid out unconscious.

Determined, Brian hitches his leg up around Pat’s hip, circles his arms around his neck, is met with Pat panting out “God, you’re _gorgeous_,” loud and undeniable into the echoing hall. His hands fly up to support Brian, grabbing his ass and hoisting Brian up to perch at his waist. The sound of fabric ripping follows the jerky maneuver. Brian’s gown has caught at Pat’s belt buckle, yanking down from his shoulders, bottom hem snagging. 

Focusing on just scaring off the dove is proving to be difficult with the current circumstances, but isn’t it just Brian’s luck that his goals align- a two-birds-one-stone sorta thing, right? Distantly, alarm bells ring in Brian’s head, when he gathers himself enough to tear his awed gaze from the wardrobe mishap (_wowowow_ Pat’s hands are big around his hips, pressing firm where their bodies meet at a junction of ripped silk and hard metal) and Brian sees that yikes, the dove has crept forward slightly, seeming to assess whether they can scoot on by without calling attention to themself. 

Pat readjusts his hold so Brian’s not caught on his belt anymore but miscalculates, the new grip pressing their hips flush together, the weight of Brian and the ungiving glass behind Pat just adding to the pressure, hard and desperate. Brian, _of fucking course_, has to jolt forward instinctively, grind down against Pat in a second of mindlessness, and _oh-_ finds Pat already hard in his jeans, pressed against the thin wisp of fabric separating Brian from the rest of the world.

A strangled “_Bri- Apollo_,” startles out of Pat at the contact at the same time Brian moans appreciatively, and then the two of them are frozen, breathing hard, wide-eyes searching each other’s faces. The air is electrified, something icy-hot surging through and snapping them to reality. 

Brian’s mind goes through all sorts of trains of thought like _god, he’s huge_\- and with a bit of pride, _I did this to him-_ and also, _I’m not doing this right at all. Leave it to a hooker to skip over kissing and get right to the hot and heavy, huh._ None of these are particularly useful to the situation at hand. Pat’s harsh cut of cheekbone and brow looks tentative now, slacked in stupor, absolutely handsome and mortified at being caught. His mouth, still unkissed, is parted in an unspoken question. _Oh god,_ Brian thinks,_ is this okay? Can I try again?_

And then the moment allows no further contemplation, shatters when yep, shit, the dove is edging their way closer, ready to slip past into the drug sector. Fast and loose, Brian lets go and slinks down Pat’s body, plants his knees on the ground. Clothes shredded and half-shrugged on, dropping to the floor instantaneously, he’s sure he looks a mess- and Brian can work with that.

Pat rumbles another, “_Apollo_,” firm this time, tilts his head back to flick a smoldering glance from Brian to the approaching dove. “Don’t be a tease.” Urgent in a way that edges past lust.

Trying to convey something unknown to even him, Brian leans forward to press a quick kiss to the soft of Pat’s lower stomach, chaste and sweet as it could reasonably be. Then he gets his deft hands on Pat’s belt, unbuckles and tugs his pants down. Pat’s murmur unsteadies him, a “_Fuck_, can’t wait to get your mouth on me,” loud enough to hear over the footsteps closing in. Brian’s fingers are dipped into the band of Pat’s underwear, heart thumping and hesitant, when Pat stiffens and barks, “Jesus, get _lost_. Can’t you see we’re in the middle of somethin’ here?”

Pat runs a hand through Brian’s hair and grabs, tugs him away without much force.

Ah, so they’re going this direction now.

Putting on a filthy expression, Brian turns his head away from Pat with some reluctance to examine the dove. Despite the intrusion, Brian doesn’t bother to stop running his hands up Pat’s thighs, pretends he’s invested in blowing some testy client before they get mean.

“You know this kid?” Pat growls, annoyed. He’s all hard-edges now. 

The dove in question shrinks away when Brian’s gaze alights on them, scrutinizing. Brian may not know their name, but they sure know _him_. Knows not to interrupt the star performer, knows who he answers to. Being a prized possession comes with perks.

“Mm. I know ‘em.” Brian bluffs, rolling each word out lazily. The dove still hovers, unconvinced. 

“And I know whenever I’m curled up with the Duke and Duchess,” name-dropping for good measure, “they’ve been complaining about some missing syrup rations.” 

The dove stumbles one step backward, apologizing profusely, “Sorry for barging in! I didn’t realize- I wasn’t- Clients aren’t usually down here,” they stutter, panicked. 

“Spur of the moment sort of thing.” Brian tips the crown of his head forward till he’s nearly nuzzling against the crook of Pat’s thigh, making an impatient face at the dove.

“Don’t tell anyone, please-” 

“Get out of my sight in five and it’ll be like it never happened,” Pat cuts them off, cold, stroking casually across Brian’s shoulders.

The dove bolts down the hall before Pat can even start counting. 

Once alone, the two of them slump over with relief, in various states of disarray and disrobement. A heavy silence fills the chamber, neither of them making a sound beyond heaving to catch their breath.

Allegra’s hissed whisper eventually comes from around the bend. “Are we good?” 

Startled back to reality, Pat offers his hand and helps Brian off the floor. “Uh.” Pat’s voice catches a bit, sounds nonplussed, “Yeah, the coast is clear.”

“‘Kay, just a few more crates and we’re outtie.” Allegra calls back, her footsteps fading out in a quick-sure pace behind them. Clayton reappears in the hallway intersection, handing a pistol to Pat, who goes to tuck it into the waistband of his- woops- still undone pants. 

A shocked giggle escapes Brian before he can suppress it, unable to fully process everything from just minutes before. Clayton thankfully says nothing about their current state, just something professional about moving some propagation cuttings to the truck, but the smile underneath his beard quirks into something teasing. 

It’s strange- how easy it is to feel so light and amused while Pat, embarrassed but resolutely not showing it, pretends to busy himself with holstering the pistol, refuses to look at Clayton. Like they’re not in the middle of a heist, like they’re a couple of scoundrels that get up to harmless mischief, sneaking around back rooms and making fun of one another when they’re caught fooling around. It feels a whole lot less _deadly high-stakes serious_ than Brian expected and more _come the fuck on, guys, put a coin in the horny jar and let's go. _

It comes as a surprise when Clayton steps into Brian’s space, firm but not intruding. When Brian falls still and lets him get closer, Clayton takes it as permission to reach out and adjust what remains of the gown, trying to get Brian to look somewhat presentable. Clayton’s touches don’t linger, but they aren’t shy either. It’s nice, grounding attention that doesn’t feel like Brian’s being treated like he’s delicate, but also doesn’t assume that they’re familiar with each other yet. Some unbidden thought wiggles through Brian’s ebbing adrenaline rush, remarking glibly how he wouldn’t mind it if Clayton got _familiar_. And then, his mind conjures the image of Pat getting all flustered-jealous. Before he knows it, Brian’s body is manifesting this knee-jerk thought into holding Pat’s gaze as he’s being preened, peeking smugly over Clayton’s broad shoulder, then winking.

Apparently, it’s not subtle, judging by the way Clayton pulls the sash around Brian’s waist a little too tight, hitching him forward with the motion. His expression has a certain frankness to it when Brian jerks his attention back, and he realizes in actuality, Clayton’s the one messing with them.

Withdrawing once he seems to think Brian looks less fucked-out, Clayton turns back to Pat, and Brian doesn’t miss the double raised-eyebrow Clayton shoots at the other man. It definitely conveys something along the lines of _Jesus, Pat_. If Brian were less focused on the mission, and he super-duper is, he’d thrill at one of Pat’s friends honest-to-god _tsking_ when they saw the number Pat did on Brian.

“This is more of a last resort.” The bearded man hands over a magazine to Pat, who slides the clip out in inspection and then stows it away in a practiced movement. Passing a brief hand over each of their shoulders, Clayton gestures to the mirror. “You guys think you’re okay to get back to the saloon? Not sure if this place has any hangups about decency,” and Clayton’s quiet voice isn’t mocking, just stating, “But I don’t have makeup on hand and we don’t want you to stand out too much right now.”

They do one last once over in the mirror, Brian’s stomach fluttering in dismay when he sees Pat wasn’t exactly careful not to leave any marks on his neck. He’ll have to... deal with that later, he thinks distantly.

“Thanks for sorting us out..." Brian says, all friendly-like at first, “._..Clay?_” trying the nickname out like he’s tasting the way it sticks to his tongue, watches the other two men’s expressions. Pat raises an eyebrow at Brian, somewhat disgruntled at whatever bit Brian’s playing at, _flirting_ with Clayton- and Clayton laughs, just once, heartily. 

“Clay’s fine.” hums Clayton, "Seems like Pat’s still figuring out if you’re a handful or not,” fixing his matter-of-fact smirk on Pat, just piling on the ridicule. Brian decides he likes Clayton.

“What about you, have you figured it out?” Brian quips back coyly, despite the both of them watching Pat now, savoring the embarrassed scowl across his face.

Pat breaks into a groan, good-natured and exasperated altogether. “Oh Jesus _god_ don’t enable each other. Clayton, if _you’re_ acting like this with him, then what of the others, huh?” 

Brian reaches to adjust Pat’s collar, smiling at Pat’s hint that Brian’d get along with the others like a house on fire, then lets his hand fall to where Pat’s pistol is concealed and taps twice, shyly, ridiculously. 

“Go worry about the drugs, _Clay_, we got it from here.”

_____

_Jenna (a green-corroded gear) appears at the map’s back perimeter. Jonah points, “Jenna will be parked out back with the other vehicles. The weed gets loaded up there, Rowan and Jeff will follow the last batch and carry out any of personal possessions that haven’t been smuggled out yet.”_

_“We need a new bong, by the way.”_

_“You’ll have plenty of bongs after tomorrow,” Jonah assures, annoyed. _

_“Laura will leave out the bakery window, soon as she can get out of her seamstress duties. I’ll follow her out, make sure she’s safe and undetected.”_

_Brian pushes Laura (ochre spool of thread) around the map, then places the Duke and Duchess (tangle of a golden necklace, an empty syrup vial) in the main saloon. “Keep in mind that this whole time we’ll need to be sure to avoid attention from these two. They’ve usually got their hands full the whole night, entertaining business partners and making deals and whatnot.”_

_Jonah relocates Brian and Pat’s pawns to the saloon as well, putting Brian’s onstage. “Once Brian finishes his performance, Pat needs to swoop in and book him for the night. When you’re alone, you two slip out. Whatever’s closest to you, back door or window, just choose what the situation calls for.” _

_Brian bounces in place, sweeps all the Polygon pawns on the board into one cluster and then off of the map. _

_“Then we’re home free.”_

_Everyone murmurs excitedly at the conclusion of the plan, each chattering amongst themselves about their roles._

_Pat twists the ring around his pointer finger, chews his lip as he surveys the map. “So. What happens if- Y’know, what do we do if something goes wrong?”_

_The question is for Simone more than anything else, since Pat’s sort of running the show under her command right now, but the conversation around him reaches a lull right as he says it._

_Unphased by the bleak suggestion, Brian chirps “We improv, I suppose.”_

______

“_Frieeend!_ Come, come, sit with me. Look what I’ve just caught.”

A voice pipes up when Pat stalks past the booth in the corner, attempting to avoid attention from that specific table. To Pat’s credit, guests are still filing into the saloon, the crowds aren’t big enough yet to give him cover.

Pat turns to find the Duke staring right at him. Ah. _Friend_ means Pat. The Duke’s expression looks playful, matches his bored-amused tone. It feels like he’s toying with prey. His eyes search Pat’s face a moment too long to dismiss when he lifts something from his lap to show Pat. It’s. Pat blinks. 

The Duke’s holding Zuko.

For a moment, Pat considers bidding the Duke goodbye and disappearing into the crowd to formulate a way to steal the cat back. But Brian has left Pat’s side to run backstage, check up on what the Duchess is up to, so there’s really no excuse for Pat to make.

Chuffing out a bark of a laugh, Pat slides into the booth next to the Duke, reaches to pour himself a glass of wine like he wants to be there, like he’s planning on staying a while. 

“That raggedy thing? You got my hopes up, I was expecting a different kind of _tail_.”

And then just like that, the Duke’s hint of suspicion vanishes as he sloppily clinks his glass to Pat’s, laughs unpleasant and uproarious. Dear, god- it can’t be that easy to win the man over, right?

But it is. Now that Pat is closer, he can tell that the man’s already sloshed, grabbing Pat’s shoulder clumsily and jostling it as he calms down from his laughing fit. 

“Wrong kind of pussy, eh? At least _someone_ shares my sense of humor.” The hand gripping the Duke’s glass of wine makes an arc as he says this, “Can’t trust anyone to have a good time these days. You and I though, we know what life’s about.” He gestures to a pair of syrup-covered server doves strolling by.

“I’ll cheers to that,” Pat agrees heartily before he swigs from his drink, drowns his urge to smash the man’s head in.

Pat wipes his mouth, goes for indifference. “What’s the cat for, anyways?” 

“Just fucking with someone, this one’s the seamstress’s favorite. I couldn’t find her earlier when I _needed_ to find my favorite cufflinks. She’ll turn up when she catches word of who’s got her kitty.” 

So Laura’s already left the building or on her way out. Damn it. Jonah’s probably gone with her too. They’re a little ahead of schedule, the only things left to get out of here’s Pat, Brian and-

Pat looks back at Zuko.

The Duke drones on, crushing a hand far too roughly over Zuko’s ears. “I mean, what the fuck do we pay her for if she’s not around to do her job, huh? She's got an easy one too!”

Fighting the urge to point out that they don’t really _pay_ anyone for their work, Pat remarks “I thought that was Apollo’s cat,” instead.

“They’re siblings. Dunno if you’ve seen her, the seamstress is alright looking- but when you put the two bitches side by side, they’re the spitting image.”

Pat’s at a loss for what to say to _that_, still spinning improvised versions of the plan in his mind and ignoring the growing desire to put this guy into the ground. Then the music filling the saloon swells, snaps into a quicker tempo. The Duke springs up with intention.

“Fuck me, the floor’s gonna open up for dancing soon. Gotta pull some people aside now, talk shop while the music’s going on so I don’t miss the opening performance.”

Thank god for reflexes, because the man _tosses_ Zuko at Pat. “Hang on to this varmint for me, I’ll catch you later.” 

Watching the Duke saunter off to a cluster of guests, Pat can only blink and stifle a laugh because god, he can’t wait to rob this dense fucker blind. Readjusting his armful of ruffled cat, Pat disappears into the growing crowd and takes to the dance floor.

______

Brian slinks his way around backstage, dodging costume racks and a couple of doves. The energy back here hasn’t ramped up much yet, the opening performance is just him, the musicians and a few other dancers on stage while the rest of the roster sing scattered about the saloon. Most of those doves are getting ready now to hit the dance floor and warm up the patrons before the party starts. 

_“Shit, ow”_ Brian curses as he steps on a thumbtack that had rolled off of a tech stand. Moving to pick it up and put it back, Brian spots a small pair of wire cutters in the rat’s nest of cluttered tools.

Brian’s mind is already working overtime to process the evening so far, and the snarl of anxiety about what hasn’t happened yet doesn’t ease up the clutter of thoughts. He barely registers it when his arm moves automatically, slips the cutters into the pocket of his tattered gown. The weight of it centers him a little bit, calms the way Brian’s heartbeat jumps in his throat, and somewhere beneath the overwhelmed roar in his head there’s a tiny voice urging him that he needs it. Right. Stay on task. Brian pushes past a curtained door with some frustration- the enclosed space is filled with the thick of syrup and perfume, she’s got to be somewhere-

“Goodness, you look like you’ve already gotten started on tonight’s fun.” The Duchess, in a dressing gown of her own, glitters with excitement when she spins around to greet him, the way she always does on nights like this. “You'd be wise to use some concealer.” She. remarks, then turns back and grabs the dove standing next to her by the chin, pulling her close- it’s Urania, the dove playing harp for the opening performance. 

“This song _has_ to be exhilarating, dazzling. I want you and the other musicians to entertain our guests, you understand? You’re carrying the show- the doves singing in the audience won’t be enough to immerse the audience.”

Sometimes it’s easy to remember why Brian liked this place, why Brian liked her. The terrifying grace and melodrama that comes with the Duchess embodies the brothel and all its rapture.

Urania nods and shuffles away once released. As Brian wanders close enough, the Duchess pulls him into an embrace. “I’ve decided to forgive Duke for the time being- he came back with gallons of honey. _Gallons_! I don’t even want to know how he got it.” 

That’s- unconvincing, despite her blissful manner. It never is as easy as this for her to stop arguing with the Duke. But her mind is already moving on to “Oh Apollo, when you get a day off I’ll pour it all over you and lick it off, how does that sound?” 

The wicked tilt to her smile makes it clear that it’s not up for discussion, but the hand at the small of his back is smoothing in gentle circles.

It’s an easy thing to remember the ways she’s been good to him, kept him away from syrup, spoiled him with books, let Brian do whatever he wanted, really. 

“I love the idea of that.” He murmurs into her neck, noses up against her pulse.

Her piles of necklaces dig into Brian’s chest when the Duchess hugs him tighter, her arms crushing him against the jut of vials. 

It’s an easy thing to remember how quick she is to be cruel, turns a blind eye when her husband or money is involved. It’s an easy thing to smile back, lean in close in the backstage swath of darkness, unwrap the pair of wire cutters from their silken fold.

“Mm. I hoped you would- I suppose that Duke isn’t completely useless after all.” She scoffs eventually, bitterness seeping back into her tone. Brian lays a kiss above her collarbone, silent.

She murmurs, almost to herself, “It’s just you and me, Apollo. You’ll see.”

Brian tries not to freeze. The Duchess can’t know he’s leaving tonight, there’s no way she’d act like this if she knew. But her voice is. Strange. Maybe she and the Duke really are on the rocks.

Gently, Brian frees himself from her hold, just enough to get his arms between them. 

“You’ve always taken such good care of me.” Brian matches her hushed tone, serious, as if he even remotely understands what she’s thinking right now. He presses a kiss to her jaw. Slides a hand into the tangle of tearcatchers around her neck.

“Well, you’ve always been the perfect little slut,” she croons back sweetly.

The Duchess pulls his face close and kisses him deeply; she bites his lip the same moment Brian feels the tension between the cutter blades snap. Brian lets himself sink into the kiss for a moment longer, palming his unchained vial and slipping the wire cutters back into his gown.

The music playing in the main room grows louder, picks up the pace. The Duchess breaks out of thought, releases Brian from her hold slowly.

She smirks, pokes her stiletto nail into one of the larger rips in his dress. “Go enjoy yourself some more, little dove.” Brian turns to leave, swallowing the nameless feeling that fills him now, because he knows that everything is coming to an end. Brian startles one last time when a hand grabs at his ass and he panics, ridiculously, thinking the Duchess noticed her neck was a few teardrops lighter. But the Duchess only purrs, “And fetch lots of coin while you’re at it, hm?”

_________

Brian looks a bit shaken when he emerges from the passage next to the stage wall, but when Pat catches his eye from the crowd and makes a quizzical face, Brian just purses his lips, brushes it off with a wave. Pat isn’t ready to let it go, but Brian’s expression has already smoothed out when he makes his way over.

“Everything alright?” Pat calls out.

A cluster of people pushes Brian closer, knocks him into Pat’s space. Steadying himself, Brian looks Pat over and freezes. “Why do you have Zuko?”

“The Duke.”

“Fuck.” Brian replies.

“He ran off to talk to some business partners and left me with Zuko. I don’t think he knows anything, necessarily, he’s just being cruel.”

Relief floods Brian’s features. “Figures.” 

“So!” he sways a bit to the music, compelled by habit or nervous energy or both. “What’s the plan then?”

“You said something about improvising-” Pat starts, surveying the room, notices Brian mirroring the movement in the corner of his eye. “I think I need to just stay out of his sight until you finish performing.”

He finds it hard to think with the roar of music, cheerful shouts and clapping to the jackrabbit-beat. It’s quick and lively enough that those who recognize the song fall into a dance instinctively and those who don’t can catch on fast enough to bounce along accordingly. Already a bit overwhelmed, and god, look how _big_ the crowd has gotten, Pat glances back at Brian, who meets his gaze with a scheming look.

“There’s no better place to lose yourself than the dance floor.” Brian looks all too pleased when he curtseys and offers his hand, palm upturned and pinky cocked. Pat bites down the smile that threatens to spread across his face, begrudgingly takes Brian’s hand and rearranges Zuko in the crook of his arm. 

Pat finds himself plunging into the crowd until they’re thoroughly lost, his only point of familiar connection being the soft hand gripping his own. Brian whips around and starts to pull Pat accordingly until he’s moving in a way that would be generously called dancing. He can barely see beyond the people surrounding them, stomping around in tall heels, their headpieces towering above, long feathers swaying overhead. It _is_ the perfect cover. 

Pat shoots Brian an impressed look, but Brian’s too caught up in trying to get Pat to dance with him to properly bask in the praise. Forcing himself to relax, Pat rolls his eyes and follows Brian’s own movements as best he can with a cat tucked under one arm.

They spin together, dancing as the swirling waves of people push them about the room, Brian turning to snatch costume pieces as they go. Pat watches, bewildered, as the chaos of the dance floor just lets Brian step close, flirt with a patron, link arms with a fellow dove and emerge with a new piece of clothing. Some people even tuck jewelry and coins into Brian’s palms as he goes, some between his toothy smile, around his neck. _Let’s play a game._ Reading the other’s lips, Pat can imagine Brian’s voice, clear as day, watching how he whispers against his targets’ necks.

Retreating from the arms of strangers, Brian easily falls back into the steps of the surrounding doves, Pat mimicking his movements as they circle one another. Brian steps out quick, then back together, Pat mirroring so that his free arm comes up and twines like so with Brian’s. The pair of them are drawn out of others’ orbit long enough for Brian to get close. Brian tries to communicate something with a few gestures and Pat finds himself understanding wordlessly, reaching out as Brian hands clothes over to Pat and stoops so he can fit a mask onto each of their faces, disguising themselves among the masses. A horribly chintzed scarf has made its way into the pile of clothes, with which Pat swaddles the poor cat. Brian’s mouth makes a pleased O, cooing silently at Zuko’s new look.

As the crowd shifts into the next part of the dance, Pat and Brian are forced to spin apart. When they pass each other briefly in the shuffle, Pat hands the bundle of Zuko off to Brian, who receives the cat without a misstep, twisting and leaping jubilantly as they’re swept apart again.

With his hands free, Pat quickly shrugs on a red duster, trying to keep up his footwork while he drapes himself in scarves and jewelry. A few measures of the song pass before the rollicking dance shifts Pat close to Brian again, who hands Zuko back smoothly as they dip into a whirling embrace. 

Brian cackles when their masked faces are pressed too close together, as if their proximity allows them to be unseen by everyone in the crowd, like they can take a moment to laugh freely at this dance of stolen costumes and passing back and forth a cat. 

The moment flits away as Brian oscillates out of Pat’s space once more, making his next pirouette a transformation and whirling a feathered scarf around himself as he goes. Pat tucks Zuko into the pocketed lining of his overcoat, keeping an arm to his ribcage to secure the bundle safely while he scans the room again to assess the situation. 

Suddenly, Brian pushes back through the crowd and hooks an arm around Pat’s shoulder, bringing Pat down so he can press their cheeks together. “Hey, listen-”

Something small presses uncomfortably into Pat’s temple until he realizes Brian’s trying to get him to listen to the scarab earring. The tinny of Simone’s voice says “Do you think you can grab Zuko? They couldn’t find him in time. Jonah just ran over to where I’m stationed and said Laura’s freaking.”

Pat tucks his chin to speak into the microphone on his lapel, “We already found him, he’s coming with us as soon as the performance ends.”

“Bri better skedaddle, it’s nearly 8:30 and he’s _still_ with you?”

Brian somehow manages to lean in closer, mouth hovering over Pat’s mic and sounding truly apologetic. “Sorry, sorry! I’m gettin’ a move on, don’t worry Sim.”

Brian inspects himself, plucking coins and necklaces from wherever they’ve remained in place and stows the fistfuls of treasure into the large outer pockets of Pat’s coat. “You blend right in, just stay low. Keep Zuko safe, I gotta go get ready.” 

He’s already trying to dart off into the crowd when Pat reaches out for his hand, pulls Brian back to face him properly. The other turns it into a spin, curling himself inwards until his and Pat’s linked arms twine around him and pull him tight against Pat. 

It’s nearly impossible now, to look at that mouth and not think about how it sang for Pat earlier, to see that neck and remember how it tasted. _Focus_._ The fuck was he going to say again? _Pat tries for a smile, tearing his stare away from a hickey he’d left above the dip of Brian’s collarbone. He squeezes Brian’s shoulder firmly before letting go, trying to convey his confidence in him.

“Break a leg up there, kid.”

________

Brian is resolutely not thinking about the fact that this is his last performance, he’s not thinking about how desperately he wants this to be beautiful because it’s the last time he gets to do this. And he’s not thinking about how silly it is to feel so sad about an era ending when all it’s ever done is hurt him. Brian’s not going to cry about this, damn it, the smears of gold makeup on his face will wash away if he does. He breathes in deep through his nose, out through his mouth.

It’s always good to be reminded of the love inside his body, the way his nerves eventually settle like they do, unfailingly; his body is caring for him, preparing him for enchantment in the liminal gasp of a minute before he’s on stage. 

All Brian can see is the dark curtain ahead of him and all he can feel is the metal weight of his ribcage-shaped chest piece, golden, jewel-encrusted bones sheathing the skin that caress his real bones, the ones that hold his quickened heartbeat. 

Next to him, Urania draws in a breath, holding herself stock-still and poised like the unwavering arch of her grand harp. He is reminded to straighten his own posture, curve his own back sweetly, but the life-sized wings sprouting off the back of his ribcage are a heavy thing to bear, dragging his shoulders down. The curtain rises.

Brian adores this song, truly, having adapted some of the lyrics and composition years ago with Jonah, when he was still a fledgeling dove, freshly having dealt with two devils. Dancing this routine isn’t too challenging as long as he poses angelic and bounces quickly so that his wings float like they’re moving. Urania starts plucking fast, heavy drums joining as she ascends into a dazzling arpeggio. He moves along with the swelling intro, fluttering to and fro before starting.

_“The looking glass so shiny and new_

_How quickly the glamor fades”_

Urania is divine on the harp, he really must be careful to let her notes shine through, make sure that he doesn’t get carried away and sing over the pauses, over the twinkle of strings, the beats where he should be silent. 

_“I start spinning slipping out of time_

_Was that the wrong pill to take?”_

_“Raise it up!”_ comes the voices of the doves below, their collective presence bridging the illusory space between on and off stage.

_“You made a deal and now it seems you have to offer up_

_But will it ever be enough”_

_“Raise it up, raise it up!”_

_“It’s not enough”_

_“Raise it up, raise it up!”_

_“I must become_

_A lion-hearted girl”_

The doves’ voices twine distantly with Brian’s own. He weaves in and out of view, mindful of the star-speckled scrims of royal blue that hang from the rafters and comes to a stop at the pole.

_“Ready for a fight”_

It’s all a balancing act, when Brian has to switch his voice from cathartic belting to carefully paced. 

_“It seems I've made _

_The final sacrifice”_

It’s easier than usual to keep an awareness of what he’s doing, slowing his movements up the pole, deliberate, rather than getting lost in the muscle memory and the lights and the adoring crowd. 

_“We raise it up_

_This offering”_

The doves arc up into an eerily flawless chorus among the crowd, voices melting together as Brian strides away towards the crowd, arms outstretched upwards.

_“We raise it up” _

The crowd bursts to life,

_“This is a gift”_

He rolls his shoulders with the weight of his costume, steels himself and bounds back over to the pole. 

_“It comes with a price”_

Brian swings around, ivory sarong fluttering, completely consumed with his happiness.

_“Who is the lamb and who is the knife?”_

As he lets one hand go and extends it outwards, Brian twists so that he alights one foot the ground, turns his momentum into a leap. 

_“Midas is king_

_And he holds me so tight"_

Brian twirls so that he faces the crowd one last time.

_“And turns me to gold in the sunlight”_

A pleasant burn radiates through Brian as he contorts and shifts, brightening into a welcome ache in his muscles. He knows just by the feeling that they did _perfect_.

_“Raise it up!”_

Brian doesn’t even get the chance to beam out into the audience, at the performing doves, at Pat-

A group of people following an unmistakable flash of red hair crash into the saloon and start taking out the brothel guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mentioned in this chap is Raise it up (rabbit heart) by florence and the machine.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this fic and reading! I hope it was worth the wait, as always I appreciate the kudos and comments. (A few of yall made art!! I eat that shit right up!)


	10. UPDATE + Q&A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quick update regarding this fic~!

Hi! I know some of y'all were probably hoping this was chapter 10, but I just wanted to do a sort of announcement style thing first- I know it's been around 4 months since I last updated, and after a cliffhanger at that ksjflkj so thank you all for being so patient. I am definitely not abandoning this fic, and I didn't intend to take such a long unannounced hiatus but the long and the short of it is a lot of IRL stuff was happening and I had to spend most of my time on school, therapy, applying to internships etc. 

For those of you who reached out, I am deeply flattered and I promise you chapter 10 is coming soon. I really appreciate everyone who's read this fic, it's definitely bigger and more involved than I ever planned and its thanks to people who saw my attempt at breaking into fic and were like yeah!! I'll read that!! I had a lot of problems taking on this last chapter because there's just so damn much happening in it- and I’ve been told when I get stuck writing a certain thing I should work on other scenes, so the good news is I’m pretty far into outlining the next fic with this au. 

If I had to estimate I'd say chapter 10 should be out within a week. In the meantime, while I put the finishing touches on, I thought I could do a casual Q&A sorta thing so y'all who've been waiting aren't completely without content! Whatever you want to know about characters, past scenes, the setting, inspiration etc. I'd love to answer if that's something y'all are interested in!


End file.
